Blind Spot
by Raven's Wing
Summary: *1-6 revised* Brooklyn is in trouble. Queens is wreaking terribly unpredictable chaos and slowly forcing Spot into a difficult situation. As his world begins to spin out of control, Spot starts falling for the girl who was never meant to be fallen for...
1. Setting the Stage

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.

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A/N: This is the first chapter of the sequel to the story **Frostbitten**. Please note that I wrote both of them at the same time, and both can be read separately, out of order, or together. I would encourage you to go and read **Frostbitten**, which clears up a lot of things that are assumed in this and references that will not be as clear with out it. It isn't mandatory, but it would make reading the following more meaningful. Enjoy and take care.

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Chapter 1: Setting the Stage

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Warning: This chapter is rated PG for mild swearing.

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"_Charms strike the sight   
but merit wins the soul._"   
-- Alexander Pope

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The sun rose in Brooklyn the same way that it rose everywhere else in the world. It rose in the east, but for all Spot Colons cared, it could have fallen right from the sky. Waking up in the morning only meant two things: That he would have to spend another day alive, and that he would have to sell more papers. No matter what the headline, he would have to sell what he had bought in order to make a buck or two. The Brooklyn leader groaned silently as he rolled over on the hard corncob mattress that furnished his makeshift bed. Automatically, his hand went to his neck to feel for the cross and key that dangled there. They were both in place and he fingered them absently.

Today was one of those days that didn't seem any different than the rest, but somehow you just know you would be better off staying in bed. Spot had never been one to listen to anyone but himself, so ignoring the little voice inside of his head; he rolled out of bed and started dressing. Nothing was too luxurious about his accommodations; in fact there was nothing at all luxurious about his abode. It was a one-roomed shack that he had claimed, as his own not caring to stay in the common newsy lodging house. 

Pushing open the crude wooden door that barely kept him shielded away from the elements, Spot emerged from his dark room. Squinting against the rising sun, he breathed deeply of the morning. Already the day was hot. Of course it was hot, it was July in New York. The air wreaked of the rotted fish carcasses from the wharf and the dead bodies of rats that had died somewhere along the line. Human waste and trash baking in the early morning heat. 

Walking towards the livery nearby, Spot adjusted his gray cap on his head. The livery had a half a dozen pumps that were never in use at this time in the day. He just used whatever one he pleased and no one bothered him. No one in their right mind ever bothered Spot Colons. He was a living legend, especially since the strike one year ago. Together with Jack Kelly, they had worked and fought down the newspaper lords. 

Reflecting on the past year, Spot noted that there had been no real change. They had gotten the price back down, but for what? The pay was still lousy, the hours terrible. No one besides the boys even talked about it anymore. Their fifteen minutes of fame had been cut down to about five. The fame and glory of the newsies was short lived, no one wanted to hear about nobodies for too long. Sighing, he pumped some water over his head.

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Damn, Spot thought to himself. _Da watah is a'ready wahm_, if the ground was already warm enough to heat the pipes and the water, it was going to be a scorcher. 

Shaking his head after he was done, Spot wiped his face on his sleeve and put back on his cap. It was time to start the day and find something to eat. The last night's poker game had left him with enough money to actually buy a breakfast instead of steal it. Finding a merchant, he bought some fresh milk and drank the whole bottle. The sweet creamy liquid flooded his body with pleasant feelings. It was cold, the milkman had an icebox and anything cool was welcome. Pressing the cold glass to his cheek, he was refreshed already. The rest of the money was going to pay for lunch, or dinner. 

Striding along the streets, he moved smoothly with a confidence that most boys would envy. There was no reason that he shouldn't be confident; he was Spot Conlon, possibly the best known newsie in the whole world! With his newly acquired height of five foot nine inches, his frame was now more intimidating than it had been. He was still thin as a rail, but that is how it was when you couldn't afford to eat most of the time. Spot Conlon's now how the body to back up the legend, but anyone who argued different got soaked.

Cane in hand, he walked to the gates of the paper distribution office and waited. As always he was the first boy there, the others normally came in a large group just before the gates opened, but not Spot. He was always first. There was no particular honor in being there first, but it established his role as a leader. It was a lonely life, never able to get too close to one person, but close enough that they would fight for him. All the boys held a large amount of respect for Spot, for his fighting skills and his deadly accurate aim with his slingshot. 

In his hand he held his slingshot, it was finely whittled fork of wood. The rarity of trees in this heavily populated made his possession even more valuable. Also the finely carved patterns he had dug into it with his knife made it all the more so. An old discarded scrap of rubber was nailed to the ends, and it was obviously well worn. Spot never went anywhere without his prize weapon; it was what had kept him in power for most of his time as a newsy. 

If anyone bigger or stronger challenged him, he had that slingshot out in a blink of an eye. Before the opponent knew what was happening, Spot had aimed and fired. Depending on the accuracy of the shot, the size of the shooter, and the strength behind the blow, it could do anything from knock the boy out to merely graze him. Although it rarely happened that Spot did anything but hit dead on his target. When he didn't, he had all the newsies in Brooklyn willing to fight for him.

Speaking of the boys, Spot shielded his eyes from the sun and looked in the direction of a far off street. Sure enough, here came the whole lot of them. Straightening and putting his slingshot in his waistband, Spot commanded the pose of a leader. The boys took their sweet time getting to the gate and several greeted Spot with a slap on the back or a nod, but every single one acknowledged him.

There were too many stories about things that Spot had done for the boys to ignore him. All of the stories from the past added together with the stories of the strike had a tendency to grow. All of the newsies had a knack for 'improving the truth' making Spot an urban legend. Some of the stories were so terrifying that some boys didn't even look Spot in the eyes. Very few boys ever thought of challenging him, and none of them had the courage to find out the truth of the legends. Outsider, Spot's second in command, took the space next to the leader, but was always sure to let him go in first.

The gates finally opened and Spot strode in and moved right to the desk. Slamming his money down, he demanded his papers. Even the clerk behind the cars was slightly afraid of this boy. Even though he appeared to be thin and lanky, the clerk had seen the results of some the various brawls Spot Conlon had been involved in. Besides, the ice behind Spot's blue eyes could freeze the warmest heart. Stepping to the side with his stack of papers, Spot scanned the front page.

"**Fire in Harlem Rages,**" The headline proclaimed. "_Drought spreads the fear of fire throughout New York_," the subtitle announced.

The drought was the headline again. People were sick of hearing about the drought and the fires, today was going to be a hard selling day. Determined to sell all of his papers, Spot set out on the street, rising the cry of the newsie. 

"Extrie! Extrie! Read all about it! Fire in Harlem kills dozens!" He called to the people on the street. "Arson suspected!" So began the long, hot day.

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//Should I stay or go,

Should I sleep or stay awake,

Am I really happy or is it all

Just an illusion…//

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It was before dinner when Spot had sold all of his papers. The milk from that morning had worn off long ago and he hadn't taken the time off for lunch. As he trudged towards his shack, he decided to stop by the lodging house for a visit like he usually did. Papers sold fast than they normally did, but for some reason he was more tired than any other time he could remember. The heat had drained him of all energy and he felt sick. Stumbling up the steps, he pushed open the door and dropped into the nearest chair he could find. There was no movement in the air, just a thick smothering heat. Almost gasping for air, he wiped his sleeve across his face. The grime and sweat came off, but his already sufficiently dirty sleeve left a new trail across his forehead.

"Oh my!" A soft voice exclaimed. "You look like you're going to fall dead," Spot opened his eyes to see the lodging house's owner's daughter, Emily. Her soft Irish accent played in his ears. The occasion of seeing her was rare enough, her father normally had her locked away somewhere or doing something. Sometimes she would come out and watch the newsies play their games, and he had even talked to her on brief encounters.

Remembering the time he had a particularly violent encounter with the Pullvine brothers, he recalled how she had cared for him. Of course Frost had been there too, she had been the primary caregiver at that time in his life. Emily had been there too though, taking care that he had what he needed as he was bedridden for a few days. At the thought of Frost, his teeth clenched. The last thing he wanted to remember was that stubborn girl.

"I'se justa lil' hot dats all," he straightened in the chair, dismissing his other thoughts and trying to gather some of his pride. It wouldn't be fitting for the Brooklyn leader to look anything less than in control.

"Your face is all red and dirty, you wait right there," She turned and was gone before he could protest. Probably going to find something to take care of him. 

Grumbling, he waited. If she wasn't a lady, he wouldn't have waited, he would have gotten up and walked out of the boarding house right then. Emily was a lady though, and she was too sweet and innocent to hurt by his rude behavior. For as street smart as he was, she was naïve. Or so he was lead to believe. All she wanted to do was help him, her caring maternal instincts kicking into full swing. Being coddled wasn't one of Spot's strong points, but for her, he would bear it.

When she returned she knelt next to chair where he sat, then took a rag from a bowl of water and pressed it to his face. The water was surprisingly cool. The coolness on his hot skin felt incredibly wonderful. Closing his eyes he let her bathe his face and neck with the icy water. Faint memories of these same sensations played through his mind. Perhaps his mother had done this when he was a small boy….

"Dat's good," he murmured and heard her smile. "Where'd yous get da cool watah?" he asked, keeping his eyes closed. 

"I'm not supposed to tell you," she spoke quietly, moving the moisture down his neck and back to his face. 

"Why not?" Spot asked, curious but not willing to show it.

"Me da said I shouldn't tell any of the newsies about it," she drew back her hand quickly when he turned his head and sat up. Looking down at her, he wondered what she meant.

"Why not?" he asked again.

"I told you why," She whispered, her manner was so soft and gentle. Nothing like the girls on the street that he was used to. Her hair was jet black and her eyes were green. Her skin was smooth and healthy looking, and she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. It would be too easy to take advantage of such a girl. 

"Youah pa 'fraid day I'll take 'is ice?" Spot inquired, realizing that he had been staring at her.

"Me da isn't afraid of anything," Emily shook her head gently. The way her hair was pulled back away from her face, it didn't move any when she shook her head, but Spot imagined the way it would if it was down free around her shoulders. She was an average looking girl, far from being beautiful, but she was cute. Spot noticed that her narrow nose turned up slightly at the end, adding to the little girl appeal of her face. Spot realized that he was staring at her again, and that she was looking up at him still, expectantly. 

Tearing away his gaze, he looked down at the bowl she was holding on her lap. Normally, Spot wouldn't have even given this girl a second look except for a good time, but it was discomforting where the direction of his thoughts were taking him. His normal girl was tough and rough around the edges, they wore pants and suspenders just like him, and some of them even had short hair. This girl was nothing like them, she didn't have the quick tongue or the spitfire that the other girls had, she was different. There was a quiet, gentle beauty about her. Whatever it was, she was different, too different, and it was scaring Spot.

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Yous just been alone too long, he comforted himself. It was true that he hadn't so much as touched a girl in months. The physical hunger that he felt was simply a product of the lack of fulfillment. At this point, probably anyone would look good. 

"I'm shuah he ain't," Spot muttered, trying to gain control of his thoughts. "T'anks for da cool watah, it felt good," He thanked her politely and looked back at her a wry grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I won't tell youah pa dat I knows dat 'e has ice in da cellah," he laughed slightly when she gasped and pulled back, offended. His grin faded when she stood and moved back, seeming shocked.

"You mean – you – how could – I don't believe it!" She sputtered, and Spot was confused.

"Whot ah yous talkin' 'bout?" Spot frowned.

"How did you know where the ice was?" She looked a little afraid, he wondered why.

"I don' knows," Spot shrugged. "Just guessed," he stood and walked over to her. "I didn' mean nothin' by it," he said softly, sincerely. In fact, he hadn't even known this place had an operable cellar.

"I'd be in trouble if da ever found out you knew," She spoke quietly, like she was speaking a great secret.

"Den I sweah dat nobody will find out from me," He gave her one of his rare wry grins. "An' if anyone try's ta take some, I'll soak 'em," She looked puzzled at his last statement.

"Soak them?" she asked, almost more to herself than Spot, as if she was trying to wrack her brain for a definition to the foreign phrase.

"Beat 'em," Spot clarified and her eyes widened.

"You wouldn't really… hurt anyone, would you?" She inquired her eyes large. 

"Nah, I'd just rough 'em up a bit so de would knows nevah to mess 'round with one a Spot Conlon's friends," he impulsively reached out and took her hand. It was a completely natural innocent gesture on his part as he led her over the wall where they sat, fingers still entwined, but it made Emily's face blush crimson. "Yous feelin' a'ight?" he asked, confused by her sudden change in color.

"Yes," she ducked her head. "I'm fine," she sat next to him and noted happily that he didn't pull away his hand.

For Spot, taking a girl's hand was nothing new it was almost routine. For Emily it was a landmark. It was comfortable as they leaned against the wall, it was still desperately hot, but they were comfortable. So they talked, something that they had never really done before, but it was refreshing. In fact, Spot found in most enjoyable. Who would have thought that he would have found amusement in such a simple girl? They were happily conversing when Emily's father came in through the door.

"Emily, what are you doing?" Her father boomed and Spot felt her hand slip out of his quickly.

"I was just talking to Spot, Da," She answered weakly, her eyes on the floor.

"Is dinner ready?" Spot could hear where Emily had gotten her accent, her father's strong brogue showed clearly.

"No da, I was just about to –" She was cut off by her father's booming voice.

"I come home from a hard days work and this is how you repay me?" He was mad, but his anger was unjust, thought Spot. "Now you get in the kitchen and get to work!"

"Suah," Spot sprang up as Emily retreated to kitchen. "I t'ink dat it wos moah my fault dan Emily's," he addressed the lodging master, this was the first time he had ever spoken to the man.

"What's your name boy?" he growled, but Spot stood strong. Even if he was the lodging master, the honor of a true lady was at stake.

"Conlon, Spot Conlon," He spoke his name with pride, and recognition flickered over the man's face. 

"I've heard of you," he spoke more calmly now. "Yous some sort of leader for all these boys, aren't you?" He looked Spot over more carefully. 

"Yes suah, I am," He held his head high, the man was about his height, but he was much sturdier when he came to build. It really didn't matter anyway; fighting the Lodging house's owner was career suicide. 

"You used to stay here, didn't you?" The broad man asked.

"Yeah I'se stayed heah," Spot nodded. "Got me own place now," he met the man's eyes unwaveringly.

"Well tell your boys to stay away from my Emily," he growled. "I don't want any of those girl newsies near her either. I don't want any of you street rats putting ideas in her head, you understand?" he ground out.

"I don' live heah suah, so how's it dat yous gets ta boss me 'round?" Spot challenged, folding his arms across his chest.

"Obey me, or get out now," the man pointed to the door and Spot walked towards it.

"It was nice talkin' ta ya gent," Spot bowed regally as he swept up his cane and exited the door. 

Outside Spot was still his cool collected self. Inside, he was fuming. The way that Emily's father treated her wasn't right, almost like she was more of a servant than a daughter was. Where had he been all day and where did he get the nerve to come in and bark orders at her? It probably was his entire fault that Emily was in trouble. He should have never come in there or talked to her. It took a great effort for him to pull his thoughts away from the situation as he started for the docks. On a day this hot, it was guaranteed that some of his boys would be down there swimming. 

He would return to the lodging house later. He had a few things he needed to settle, and some people to talk to. Besides, no one told Spot Conlon what to do!

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//I took a walk,

Around the world,

To ease,

My troubled mind…//

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Sure enough, several of the boys were diving off the docks with the help of a huge rope swing. Spot himself rarely took part of this sport, but found it fun to watch. Perching himself on top of some crates, he sat like a king on his throne. He was a king in a way, a king of the newsies, the king of Brooklyn. 

Some of the other newsies came and talked to him, Spot was quite popular. He knew them all, he knew their stories, their background, but no one knew his. Perhaps that was why they were all afraid of him. He knew something about each of them that they didn't want to be spread around, so the didn't want to get on his bad side. Intimidation, friendship, loyalty, and respect were what summed up the unwritten newsies' code. 

Outsider came from his play when Spot had situated himself on his 'throne'. The second in command exchanged words with the leader who listened carefully. No one else heard the conversations, no one ever tried. If the rumors and gossip and Spot Conlon was true, they didn't want to risk it. After a time, Spot straightened and looked around before speaking.

"Hey Flash," Spot called as the boy climbed back up onto the dock. "Whot's da news from Manhattan?" Flash, a small incredibly fast little boy, who happened to be one of Spot's 'lil' boidies', approached the leader. 

"Nothin' to report," he shook his head. "DeLancey bruddahs have been causin' some trouble, but notin' dat de can't handle," the small newsie briefed his superior. 

"Wheah's Pips?" Spot scanned the surroundings, it was possible that the boy hadn't finished selling, or wasn't back from scouting, or just didn't come to the docks. 

"Nobodies seen 'im," Flash answered. "Not since 'e went ta Queens 'round noon," Flash backed away from Spot a few steps as he hopped suddenly from his perch on the boxes. 

"He went ta Queens alone?" Spot's eyes narrowed as he looked down at the boy who was practically shriveling under his inspection.

"As fah as I knows," the boy wrapped his arms around his bare torso, hugging himself.

"Da idiot," Spots fumed. "Da moran," he started stringing off curse words that would make a sailor blush. By the end of his rant, he had all of the boys, dripping wet or dry, attention. Looking around the group, he searched one last time for Pips. "Nobody goes ta Queens alone," Spot commanded. "Nonya evah go ta Queens wit'out one o' da fightahs," he grabbed his cane, made sure his slingshot was in place, and stormed away from the docks. There were some things he needed to do.

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//An artificial,

Season,

Covered by,

Summer rain…//

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Sarah and Jack were sitting together watching her little brother Les practice his fake swordplay with a stick against Snipeshooter. The boy was growing more every day. Jack couldn't help but feel proud of the little brat. Talking casually with Sarah and the other boys around him, Jack sat on the steps of Kloppman's lodging house. It was too hot to do much, but the younger set seemed immune to the heat. 

Since the strike last year, Sarah and Jack had developed into just friends. They were very comfortable together, but they weren't romantically inclined. The kiss they shared at the end of the strike had been the only one, but they newsies still got a few good jokes out of it. Taking it in stride, Sarah never complained, but she turned a very satisfactory shade of red.

Race and Crutchy sat together playing cards, Dutchy was talking to Snoddy about something or another, and Specs was brooding by himself. Lately, that was all the Specs seemed to be doing, but he still sold papers, but after that, he liked to spend time alone thinking. Everyone respected that and left him alone. Boots, Swifty, and Mush all were talking with Jack and Sarah. Davey was busy making sure that the two boys fighting with fake swords were safe.

"Look!" Itey yelled suddenly as he came out of the lodging house. "Its Spot!" He pointed and every newsie stopped what they had been doing and looked in the direction Itey had pointed. 

Sure enough, that confidant swagger could belong to none other than the great Spot Conlon. His cane swinging, reflecting light in the sun, the slingshot at his waist, ready for use at a moment's notice. Even though he was at the distance of a good fifty yards, you could pick him out easily. Standing quickly, Jack moved to greet the famous boy with the customary spit-shake. Jack was the only one brave enough to go up to Spot and greet him, the others went back to their business, but stayed as quiet as possible, trying to hear what the great one had to say. 

"Heya Jackie Boy," Spot spat in his hand and clasped it with his fellow leader's and headed over closer to the lodging house.

"Spot Conlon," Jack smiled. "Whot brings ya round dese heah parts?" 

"My lil' boidies have been tellin' me t'ings, Jackie," Spot moved over to the steps where he had been reclining only a few moments earlier. Sarah moved out of the way, knowing the importance of this to Jack. She personally thought it was silly for such a boy to be treated so much better than the rest, but she knew better than to say anything. "Dey's been tellin' me dat some o' my boidies ain't been comin' back from Queens lookin' too good," he pulled out his slingshot and one of his shooters. "Whot's you hoyd 'bout dis?" Spot aimed carefully and fired. A bottle, that had been sitting on a barrel about twenty feet away, shattered. 

"I'se not hoyd much outta Queens 'cept dat de gots a new leadah awhile back," Jack was used to his friend's deadly aim, and was accustom to his displays, but all of the other boys cowered slightly. Even Specs was snapped out of his deep reverie. 

"Whot have ya hoyd anyt'ing dis new leadah?" Spot turned his slingshot over in his long fingers of tapered bronze.

"I'se heard he ain't nuttin' like Brink, an' his name be Lice," at the mention of the vermin, Spot scratched his head.

The parasite was so common, especially among boys like these, that there was nothing thought about this name. Lice lived everywhere in this city, crawling in the mattresses, the bedclothes, and the people. It was near impossible to eliminate the problem, and no one really cared. It was an accepted fact that people had lice, and were going to have it. 

"Is he tough?" Spot questioned, the previous information nothing more than old news to him.

"Must be ta take ovah doze boys," Jack shrugged. "'Specially aftah Brink," Spot nodded in agreement.

Queens played by their own rules. They hadn't been very active in the strike, they were closed to most newcomers, and decidedly hated anyone who wasn't them. Brink had accepted visits from Jack and from Spot due to their high positions, but no one else. Whoever had taken over the boys was a daring and probably very strong leader.

"I'se been t'inkin' 'bout payin' 'im a bit o' a visit, make shuah he knows not ta touch me boys no moah," Spot informed lazily.

"Who's been hit?" Jack inquired, watching his friend as he thought.

"Red, Ghost, Pastah, Fiah, Fists," Spot listed off the boys one his fingers one by one and Jack whistled under his breath. "Pips weren't back from 'is route when I'se came ovah heah."

"Does ah some o' yous bettah fightahs, ain't it?" Jack frowned.

"Some o' dem," Spot nodded, knowing the others were his spies. "Da Queens' boys are stepping ovah da line heah. Dey hit any o' youah boys?" 

"Not any o' mine," Jack motioned for Race to come over. "Any woyd from Queens?" He asked the short, dark boy.

"I ain't been down dere since da new leadah got in. I t'ink he's got somet'ing against outside bettin'," Race chewed nervously on the end of his cigar. 

Spot regarded the short Italian with cool calculating eyes, knowing that he was terribly uncomfortable around him and with good reason. Memories of long ago flashed in his mind, and he smiled before turning his gaze elsewhere. Though he had just gotten there, Spot felt the need to return to Brooklyn before the night came upon them. If Pips did return, he wanted to be there.

"Well Jackie boy," Spot said, standing. "T'anks for de infoahmation," he spat in his hand again, and Jack returned the gesture. 

"Any time Brooklyn," Jack answered sincerely, and watched as his friend's eyes roamed the group before landing and staying on the only girl among them.

"Hey you," Spot addressed Sarah. "Yous a goil," he stated bluntly, and she held back laughter. "What do ya do foah a goil ta make 'er feel special, but not make 'er t'ink ya like 'er?" Spot asked, he knew he sounded stupid, but he didn't show it.

"Well," she seemed to be searching for the right words. "You could spend time with her," Sarah answered, smiling. "Just be nice to her, most of the time that is all a girl wants," she said honestly.

"Ah you shuah?" Spot scowled slightly, surely it had to be more complicated than that.

"I'm pretty sure, just be nice to her, that is better than most gifts," Sarah refrained from making some sort of comment about how cute this whole situation was. One thing Sarah had learned from being around newsies was that they didn't like the word cute and they sure didn't want to be mothered. She had also heard from Jack that Spot was getting over a broken heart.

"A'ight," Spot nodded to her and then to Jack, then turned and walked away.

Once he was out of sight, Jack let out a long deep breath. There was something very dangerous about his friend, something lethal that had never been fully tapped. Though he knew that when threatened, or angry, Spot would unleash the smallest bit of it, but never very much. Already he could see that poison surfacing, creeping over his cool and calm exterior. If he knew Spot at all, he knew what he was thinking. The Queens boys had better be careful, Spot Conlon was on the warpath. 

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A/N: Agh, I don't know what is wrong with me lately. I just haven't had the ability to sit down and write a really long chapter, so I apologize this one is kinda puny. I don't know… maybe I've been writing too many one-piece angst fictions and it is wearing off on my length ability. Oh well, I hope you enjoyed it, now leave me a review and tell me exactly what you thought, then go read the rest. ^_^


	2. Repetitive Blows

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, all that is mine is mine. This Disclaimer holds true for every chapter of this story that I will post or that has been posted.  
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**A/N**: I couldn't let this fic get too dark too soon, it is really easy for me to write very dark, creepy fics, so the first part I added mainly for fun, but it does have purpose for later in the story. ^_^ So if it seems to not fit in with the rest of the mood, bear with me please. I promise that it will all work out. Besides, it was really fun to write. Anyway, there are some things in here that aren't going to make much sense if you haven't read **Frostbitten**, but you should be able to piece it together sort of. ^_^ Take care.   
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Chapter 2: Repetitive Blows

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Warning: This chapter is rated PG for mild language and violence.

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_"Ever wayward, weak and blind_"  
-- Gustave Nadaud  
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The lodging house in Brooklyn now had enough newsies in it, which Spot could sneak in and probably not be detected by the proprietor. For some reason, he wished that he could sneak a glance at Emily, but quickly shoved the thought aside. Sneaking up the stairs to the bunks upstairs, he talked to his friends.  
Fire and Pastor, two of the more brutally injured, lay in bed, but were alert and well rested. Tomorrow, they claimed, they would be out to soak the bastards that did this to them. At that, someone would remind them of their broken ribs, and they would calm down, but continue to grumble. Ghost was still limping, and Red had a broken hand. Outsider and Fists were nearly recovered, but they all refused to talk publicly about what had happened. At least honestly, pride kept them from doing so.   
Pips still wasn't back.  
Spot was beginning to worry, but he didn't show it. It was a rare occasion that Spot showed anything that he was feeling inside, but that is probably why he was such a good leader, and such a good poker player. Some of the girls came in from their separate bunking area and suggested a game of cards.  
Smiling to himself, Spot pulled out some money and began the bets. Soon he had cleaned up and possessed much of the other players' money, male and female. Only then did he allow a sly smile to creep across his face.  
"Anybody up foah anoder round?" he asked, shuffling cockily.  
"I don't got no more money," pouted one girl.  
"I don't wanna play no more wit'choo, Spot, I says you cheat," Outsider complained, pushed back from the makeshift box table. Being the second in command, Outsider was the only one who would have the nerve to accuse Spot of such a thing, even in jest.  
"Let's play foah somet'ing differ'nt dan money," the girl, Flower, suggested.  
"What would we play foah?" Knife added.  
"How 'bout we play foah kisses?" The girl, Spitfire added lewdly.  
"Whot kinda kisses?" Spot listened to the conversation circle around him with unusual interest. This kind of betting could prove rewarding. Maybe if he kissed another girl, the baby spark for Emily would be drowned.  
"Whot evah kind anybody wanted ta throw in," Spitfire explained. "Cheek kisses ain't wort' as much as lips, an' lips ain't wort' as much as passion kissin'," she grinned, obviously pleased with her suggestion.  
"How much is each wort'?" Outsider asked, suddenly re-interested in the game.  
"Cheek is wort' a penny, lips is wort' a nickel, passion is wort' a quarter," Spot proclaimed. No one bothered argue with Spot's rule. "You can bet youah money or kisses, whatevah you please. Anybody got somet'ing dat we could use foah kisses?" Spot looked around.  
"We'se could use coal chips," Fists piped up.  
"But de is all da same color an' size, we'se gotta have somet'ing differ'nt," Spot looked around the room. The problem with being a newsy is there weren't too many odds and ends around the lodging house.  
"We'se could use doit," A girl with long dark hair and a hard sharp jaw known as Spice, spoke out.  
"Doit? Why would we'se wanna use doit?" Spitfire reprimanded. "How could ya use doit?"  
"Well I ain't seeing yous comin' up wit' no ideas," Spice spat in her direction.  
"We could use rocks," Ghost added, joining the circle.  
"We'se could use shootahs," Spot said. "We'se all got dem and we'se all knows our own shootahs," he pulled a few out of his pockets. The colored spheres gleaming in the late light shining through the windows.  
The group looked around, Spot had a dangerous gleam in his eyes and they all knew better than to argue. Grudgingly, the dug into their pockets and pulled out what remained of their money, and their shooters. Spitfire started the betting setting out a nickel. Spot matched her by putting out one of his medium shooters.  
"One on da lips," he smirked. "From youahs truly," the girls giggled, the boys grimaced.  
"I'se shuah hope we'se can trade dese kisses from da boys to da goils," Outsider muttered, and the game began.  
Five-card draw was the game of choice and it soon became heated, the stakes were high, and all of them had various assortments of kisses and money staked on the table. All Spot had bet so far were kisses, all three varieties, but he showed no sign of if his hand was good or bad. Flower, Outsider, Fire, and Ghost had all folding a few bets back. All there was left was Spice, Spitfire, Fists, Knife, and of course, Spot.  
"I is raisin' yous all a passion kiss," Spot put another shooter in the middle. Knife looked nervous, Spitfire looked excited, Spice looked confused, Fists looked disgusted, and Spot didn't show any emotion.  
"I fold," Fist threw down his cards.  
"Me too," Spice put down her cards, she was knew to Poker and wasn't exactly sure on most of her hands.  
Confidently, Spitfire put one of her 'passion kiss' in the pot and Knife added a quarter. So the game continued. Knife folded the next time around, so it was down to Spitfire and Spot.  
"One o' each," Spot laid his shooters on the table, he had at least fifteen different kisses at stake on the table. Spitfire began to look a little unsure of her self, but held strong and held his bet with the last of her spending money and one passion kiss.  
Spitfire was faced with the choice of either raising the bet, folding, or laying out her cards. Having spot as her opponent didn't help, as she couldn't even have a hint at how good his hand might be. Finally, she lay her cards face down on the table. "Full house," she lay them flat on the table. Sure enough, she had a pair of fives, and three kings, not a bad hand.  
When Spot didn't react, she smiled broadly and started to collect her bounty, when Spot slammed his cards down on the table. "Royal - straight - flush," he said slowly, pronouncing every word clearly in a deadly low voice. It wasn't in spades, it was in hearts, but it still beat Spitfires' hand by a mile. Her face fell, but he glowed. The single king that she hadn't had in her hand had somehow miraculously appeared in his. "Looks like I gots me some kisses," he grinned, gloating, and put all of his shooters back in his pouch before he counted the others.  
He had two passion kisses, from Spice, and three from Spitfire. The lip kisses came from a large mix, but he gave the girls the boy's, not wanting to present that image, and ten odd cheek kisses. Many of which came from the boys as well, which were dispersed evenly between the giggling girls. Eager to see if he could douse the little spark inside of him, Spot called over for Spice.  
"I believe I gots a prize ta claim," he held up one of her large shooters, symbolizing a passion kiss. The boys in the room hooted and whistled the girls giggled and whispered to each other, Spice blushed crimson, but dutifully sat on Spots lap. Leaning up, she kissed him full on the mouth.  
Nothing, That was the entirety of Spot feelings for the kiss. There was absolutely nothing there. He let her continue to kiss him though, he had won this fair and square and he was going to enjoy it. As her mouth moved over his, he returned the embrace half-heartedly. Slowly, her tongue parted his lips and nothing but a dull ache was aroused by the erotic gesture. After a bit, she pulled back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Looking at him, Spot gave a token grin then handed her the marble that he had won for the kiss.

It disturbed Spot that he hadn't even felt the slightest attraction or spawned any desires from such an amorous embrace. The cross around his neck seemed to burn as he felt the old familiar ache well up in his chest. Could it be that his flame for Frost still burned bright? Or that the spark he felt for Emily was truly something to be reckoned with?

****

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//Does anybody feel this way?

Does anybody feel like I do?

Does anybody feel this way?

Does anybody feel like I do…?//

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Spot walked back to his shack. His posture and pace showing his deep, brooding, melancholy mood. It was moments like these, the unguarded, honest, sober moments where he felt the most alone. In the company of friends, he had trained himself not to focus on these such thoughts. All day long he was hiding behind his cool facade, but it was nights like these that brought him to the chilling, sober, reality. Spot was alone, and he knew it. The loneliness wasn't a new factor in his life, but it still gnawed at him menacingly. Ever since Frost had been gone, his pain awareness of his lonely position had increased. If he weren't careful, his emptiness would eat him alive.

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//I don't ever want to feel,

The way I did that day,

Take me to the place I love,

Take me far away…//

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Queens was a tough part of town, arguably more so than Brooklyn. A group of boys sat around a single smaller boy who was obviously badly beaten. His lower lip was spit, blood smeared his face, one eye was swollen shut, and he was shivering even in the hot weather. An ox of a boy was circling him like a vulture; the other boys held lanterns or clubs.  
"Whot was yous doin' in ouah terrahtory?" The large boy barked.  
"I'se nevah been ta Queens afore an' I wanted ta see whot it wos like," The little boy shivered again.  
"How come you came so fah inta Queens?" The large boy asked.  
"Cause I got toyned around," the smaller boy shrank back from the larger one as he took a swing at his head.  
"Yous a spy ain't ya?" A boy from the crowed yelled and the group affirmed the want of an answer with a low murmur.  
"No I ain't!" The boy cried. "Why'd I be spyin'?"  
"Cause evahybody knows dat Spot Conlon's has got spies," A shadowy figure spoke, coming away from the wall where he had been reclining. It was the first time he had spoken the entire night. "An' Spot Conlon's don't ca'ah much foah Queens," the shadow continued. "If we'se let you'se go back, yous can tell 'im dat we don't ca'ah much fo' Brooklyn neither," the boy stepped into the light, spitting on the dirt ground. He was tall and strongly built; half of his face was still shadowed, adding to the mystery of his appearance. A shock of brown hair ran wildly out of his head, it was messy and fairly unkempt.  
"I don't spy foah nobody, I'se loyal ta nobody, I'se nevah even seen Spot Conlons!" The little boy knew that this had to be the leader of the group, he could tell by the way that the boys parted to make way for him and the commanding presence he had over the oaf that had been questioning him.  
"He's lyin' Lice, ya know he is," the Oaf addressed the half-shadowed mystery.  
"I don't know nothin' foah shuah, but I knows dat he ain't goin' ta talk," Lice frowned deeply. "Plank, Driftah, take dis boy back ta Brooklyn an make shuah dat he stays dere," The boy raised his hand and snapped his fingers and everyone moved at once. The circle dispersed instantly except for the two boys that had been instructed to take the smaller boy back.  
"I hopes dat yous liked youah view o' Queens," The larger of the two growled. "Cause it's bettah be youah last."  
The small boy gulped as he was practically dragged back to the line between Brooklyn and Queens. The boy was fairly sure that his captors wouldn't go into Brooklyn, but they did, they walked him as far as twenty blocks into territory then let him go. Turning that moved back towards their area as if they hadn't a care in the world. With what little strength the boy had left, he moved his battered body towards the lodging house.  
**. : ^_^ : .**

__

//He sees that,

They are blind,

Why does he,

Take all the blame…?//

****

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Spot was just leaving when Pips made it to the front door. Without a single word exchanged, Spot knew what had happened. The Queens' boys had beaten him. There wasn't anything too terribly wrong with Pips, he was limping, but he wasn't bleeding, he didn't seem to be in too much pain. The bruises would go away and so would the swelling, but he didn't have much of either, so Spot wasn't too worried about Pips directly. . What he wanted to know, more than anything was if Pips had found out anything about the new leader, Lice.  
For awhile, Pips and Spot just stood looking at each other. Pips not daring to leave without permission, and Spot not giving him any. After a bit, Spot moved to help the boy back into the lodging house. Pips was a tiny boy of about ten, the boys that had beaten him must have been much larger. Even in the brutal street world there was some code of conduct, some honor among thieves, this crossed the line.  
_Bastahds_, thought Spot.  
A commotion broke loose in the boy's bunkroom when Spot and Pips walked in. Questions from all sides brought the girls into the room as well. Their shrill squeals and feminine rejoicing wrecked havoc on Spot's hearing. Never did he want to hear those high pitch noises again, they were enough to make a man cry. The mix of Banshee wails and rumbling questions brought the wrath of the owner upon them.  
Lumbering steps were heard ascending the staircase and Spot melted into the group. He wasn't afraid of the man, but he wasn't stupid either. The red-bearded man burst through the door and scanned the room.  
"What is going on in here?" He bellowed, and the room fell to a hush. "What are the girls doing in here?" No one answered again, until Spitfire bravely spoke up.  
"Pips came back, we'se were woyied 'bout 'im," she explained. "'E went missin' dis aftahnoon, but 'e's back now, an' we'se glad," she smiled slightly, hoping to ease the hard gaze that set upon her.  
"Which one of you is Pips?" The man growled, looking around the boys. Spot discretely pulled his cap down further on his face.  
"I'se 'im," Pips raised his hand slightly.  
"You're late for curfew, if it happens again, you're out of here," The man was as unsympathetic as could be. Couldn't he see that the boy was hurt? Not another word was said and the girls filed out of the room to their bunks and the owner turned and left. Pips then moved promptly to his bunk and collapsed.

"Wheah weah yous Pips?" Outsider asked as the battered boy closed his bruised eyes. 

"Queens," he said distantly, sleep already claiming him.

"Did dey do dis to ya?" Outsider asked and Pips merely nodded.

"Let 'em sleep," Spot ordered. "We ain't goin' ta be able ta find out anyt'ing 'bout it now," he spoke knowingly, rubbing his temples, he was getting a headache.

"But Spot -" Outsider started but one sharp look from his leader was enough to shut him up. 

"Tamarra he'll be t'inkin' bettah an' wes'll find out whot we'se wanna know den," he spoke smoothly, showing no definite emotions. With no more words, Spot turned and left the room. As he went down the stairs, he heard motions above him of the group getting ready for bed, and with good reason.

To invoke the wrath of this lodging house master would be like waking a bear from its winter nap. The man had the temperament of a hornet and the kindness of a dragon. It wasn't that they expected anyone to be kind to them, but this man was enough to strike fear into even the brawniest of boys. No one wanted to be kicked out of the lodging house, so no one rebelled openly against the lodging house master.

At the bottom of the stairs, Spot looked around. No one was around, the lights had been extinguished and only the dim light that filtered through the front window illuminated the front hall. Stepping silently, he moved to the door and touched the handle gingerly. Turning it, he expected to hear the familiar click of it opening, but instead, it didn't budge. The man must have locked it.  
_Damn_, Spot cursed mentally, trying to think of another way out. Looking around quickly, he tried to find a key, but didn't discover anything. The man most definitely kept them with him at all times. Pausing to think, he turned and went back up the stairs. The boys were all in bed when Spot arrived at the bunkroom, but not all asleep. So Spot moved quietly, but assuredly to the windows that were on the far end of the room. Perhaps there would be a way of escape there.

"Spot," he heard someone whisper loudly. "Spot," the voice came again from the darkness.

"Whot?" he turned, rather irritated.

"Whot ah yous doin'?" he recognized Red's voice.

"Makin' an exit," he smirked, hoping his voice would carry over the sarcasm that his expression normally would have shown.

"Out da window?" Came the confused question.

"Yeah," Spot answered, making it sound as though Red were the stupid one for even thinking to ask such an absurd question. Uninterested in carrying on any other conversation with the boy, Spot turned and opened the window.  
Looking out, Spot saw a narrow outcropping that circled around the building until it reached the small bit of roof that covered the lodging master's quarters. If he could simply edge his way around the building, he could make it to that roof. Then figure out a way from down from there. Easing out of the window, he tested the strength of the surface, and then stepped out completely. Pressing his back to the building, he shuffled along, hoping that he wouldn't fall. Depending on how he fell, he could just be sore in the morning, or break his neck, neither seemed too appealing.  
Inch by inch he moved, bit by bit till he slowly eased around the corner to see the roof. Finally he made it, and paused to catch the breath he hadn't known he had lost. Laying flat on his stomach on the edge of the now one story roof, Spot shimmed down so that he was hanging on only by his hands. Being taller now, the drop wasn't as far and he rolled back to his feet. Something told him that he was going to have to get used to exiting that way, as he moved back towards his shack.  
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__

//We fickle humans,

And the silly games we play,

They all amount to nothing,

By the end of the day…//

****

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Days went by, Spot saw Emily once in a while during the day, and every night in his dreams. The dreams that he had startled him, he hadn't remembered ever waking up so petrified, or so excited. More often than not she made more than a casual appearance in his dream and he didn't like it, he didn't want to care anything about this girl. His type were the coarse woman who knew how to please, how to tease, how to make him burn with an all consuming fire, not the cute, innocent, helpless dames.

Frost hadn't been like Emily. She was street smart and always pressing the limits. The way she would always make him angry with her on purpose, the way she would play with his heart and make him feel like he was on a ship in the middle of a storm. The danger and mystery about her had been entrancing, but Emily was different.   
Shaking the sleep from his head and rubbing it from his eyes, Spot went to the stable like he did every morning. Today the metal pump was nearly scalding at first touch, the water was more than lukewarm and the air was oppressively hot and heavy. Perspiration was already forming on his lean body as he walked to the gate and waited.  
It had been at least a two weeks since Spot's first encounter with Emily, and he hadn't been able to get it out of his mind. Encounters with Lodging house owner had been minimal and nothing direct, but each time Spot was more and more convinced of the possessive nature of the man. Much like the heat around him, the man was smothering.  
Nightly visits to the lodging house had become regular, and it was mainly to see Emily. Sometimes he would sneak back into the kitchen, and if her father were heard coming, he would sneak out into the alleyway. She was nice girl and really seemed to care about what he had the say. That had never really happened with him before. Of course people had listened to him before, they had to listen for fear of their health, but it was for their benefit that they listened. This girl had nothing like that to make her listen to him, she just listened and it was refreshing. Sarah's advice about just being nice was working well, maybe a little too well….  
Ripping his thoughts away from Emily, he dwelt on more pressing matters. Spies had continued to be sent to Queens even after Pips incident. None of them had been caught, but none of them had gone quite as deep as Pips had gone. None of them had seen the mysterious Lice that Pips continued to rave about.  
"'E's as powerful as Spot," The boy had said solemnly. "'E snapped 'is fingahs an' everybody moved," These words were discomforting to Spot.

The Lice might have been powerful in Queens, but he had the Bronx and Manhattan on his side, at least he had Manhattan. The Bronx's loyalties could be bought, but he knew that as long as Jack Kelley was the leader, he had an ally.  
Hopefully those alliances wouldn't have to be used and the Queens' hostilities would die down. Spot would have already attacked, but he had no real information about their abilities or the number of their newsies. If there was going to be a gang war, he needed to know more before he risked such a daring move. Still, something wasn't right.

In the back of his mind, he felt a restless tugging. Like there was something just not quite right, something missing from the big picture. He knew that there was something that he just couldn't figure, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure what it was. There was something very familiar about the name Lice, but for the life of him, he couldn't place it.

Sighing, he took his hat off his head and wiped his brow, then replaced the cap. Restlessly, he swung his cane from side to side and waited for the boys to get there. His nightly visits hadn't been as regular the past few nights, as Spot was avoiding Emily and anything that had to do with her, hoping to get her out of his head  
A large group of boys moved towards the gate and Spot nodded in approval. They were early this morning. As they got closer he noted that there normal joking and gay mood was lacking. Most of them weren't even smiling. As always, they all acknowledged him, but Spot knew something was wrong. Scanning the group, he couldn't pick out anyone missing, but there had been so many holes and people being in and out lately, it was hard to remember.  
"Ah we missin' moah peoples?" Asked Spot and the group squirmed.  
"Bull got hit," Spitfire looked at the toe of her boot. "So did Stone an' Woym," she listed. "Fiah nevah came back," the group was silent.  
So this was how it was going to be, was it? Brooklyn was getting more and more aggressive as time went on, but Spot couldn't fight him. The girl newsies in his group almost numbered the same as the healthy boys now. It was obvious that Bull, Stone, and Worm were hit hard enough that they were out to sell papers today. Fire not coming back was rare enough on it's own, but maybe had had found himself a girl for the night. Fire was like that, but only once in awhile and he almost always came back, checked in, then left so the lodging master wouldn't sell his bed.  
"Nobody go inta Queens from now on," Spot announced. "Hold ya noymal sellin' grounds, but don' go nowhere inta Queens," his cold gaze roamed the group. They were relieved by the gates opening, and Spot going to buy some papers. _If dats da way de wanna play_, Spot thought. _Let da games begin_.  
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**A/N**: Thank you to Ireland, Derby, Fearless, Kaylee, Falco Conlon, Annie, and Angel for the reviews. ^_^ They made me feel special. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Candy-Corn for all those that have/are going to review. Take cares all.


	3. The Growing Storm

****

Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, no infringement is intended, so don't sue me.

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A/N: What is the point of the quote at the beginning of each chapter you ask? Most of the time, if you think about it, the quote ties somehow to the chapter that it is before. Make sense? I thought so. ^_^ You are all so very bright. Thank you all that are faithfully reading this and I apologize for taking some time in putting up these chapters. Finals are this week and I am kinds of stressed, but I love you all for reviewing me! ^_^ Enjoy!

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Chapter 3: The Growing Storm

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Warning: This chapter is rated PG - 13 for language and violence.

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"_Winged cupid painted blind_"

-- William Shakespeare

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The alley was dark and full of fog as footsteps pounded down the hard beaten earth. Echoes of heartbeats and shouted curses reverberated through the brick lined walls. Spot was running from something, but he wasn't sure what. Perspiration poured down his body, soaking his clothes and dripping into his eyes. Ducking around a corner, he pressed his back against a wall, breathing heavily, the key and cross around his neck raising and falling with every breath. A swift wind began to blow rising quickly to gusts that threatened to knock him down. A burning blackness came with the wind, circling around Spot, not letting him escape. Then the inky darkness opened and swallowed Spot, completely enveloping him in the eternal night.

Spot's own screams woke him from his dream. Shooting straight up in bed, he looked around the one room hut. Early morning light was peeking through the cracks in the walls. This wasn't the first dream of its kind. When he didn't dream about Emily, he dreamed about the darkness. Neither dream was preferable, but at least he didn't have to constantly question his feelings towards the girl. That stupid girl, she didn't deserve another single thought of his time. Muttering under his breath, he put the dream and Emily out of his mind and moved to get ready for the day.

Three days had passed since Fire had disappeared and there was still no sign of him anywhere. No one remembered where they had seen him last, and no one had any idea where he was, but Spot knew. Fire was in Queens. The dirty little low-life bastards, kidnapping a newsie from another group was unheard of. Lately he hadn't let any of his spies' go out anywhere; Manhattan included, so perhaps his little friend had moved there. It wasn't too odd for a newsie to switch groups when things got bad. Loyalties were sometimes hard to place, and Spot was glad he had never trusted much to the ingrate. Today after selling his papers he would have to take another trip to Manhattan. 

****

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__

//Why do they,

Think of stories,

That link my name,

With yours…?//

****

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True to his word, Spot visited Manhattan. Again, many of the boys lay lounging about outside of the Lodging house. It was too hot to go out and do anything, and they were too tired to care. Most of them weren't even talking, but they perked to life when the legend approached. Inside, Spot was smiling slightly, he still had power over these boys. Jack stood and went over to Spot and they preformed their ritualistic spit-shake. 

"One o' my boys is missin'," Spot started without delay. "He's ed'er heah oah in Queens," Spot spat on the ground after he said the rival territory. 

"We ain't had no new boys 'round heah in mont's," Jack shrugged. Even with Spot's growth spurt, Jack was still several inches taller than his comrade was. He feared Spot. Anyone with any sense feared Spot Conlons. He was dangerous, but you couldn't tell by his calm expression. Now, however, he was dangerous and angry, you could see the black rage in his eyes. A terrible combination for whoever crossed him. 

"Damn," Spot swore out loud and looked around the group of boys; all eyes were fixed on him. When he met their eyes, he would stare at them until they broke contact. It was highly satisfactory. "Any of you's heah knows a boy dat goes by Fiah?" Spot called out to the group. "'E carries a lightah in 'is pocket dat were 'is pops, like ta set t'ings on fiah," Spot's shaded eyes moved through the faces, all of them shook their head. Unsatisfied, Spot looped his arm around Jack's shoulder and pulled him to the side, away from the inspecting eyes and the listening ears.

"Whot's goin' on in Brooklyn, Spot?" Jack asked, knowing that there must be something. Visits from the leader of Brooklyn were rare enough, but to have two so close together was even stranger. There had to be something because Spot would most likely have sent one of his 'little birdies' to look for Fire, not lower himself to that menial task.

Squinting his eyes, Spot looked up at the sky. A few small clouds spread like spun wool over the azure pallet, and he seemed to be weighing his words before he spoke. "I gots a problem, Jackie," Spot confessed quietly, not one to openly proclaim the fact.

"Queens still beatin' youah boys?" Jack pulled away from Spot's grip so they could face each other and Spot snorted

"Shuah as hell dey ah," Spot leaned on his cane and shook his head. "Seems dat de ah creepin' fahder and fahder inta Brooklyn," he looked down at his feet them back at Manhattan. "If dis keeps up, we'se goin' ta have ta fight 'em," Spot scowled slightly. "I dunno how many of dem dere is, oah how good dey is goin' ta be at fightin'," Spot smoothed his face again, setting it with the cool uncaring mask. It was almost like he remembered who he was, what he was supposed to be. "'E says dat dis Lice is one helluva leadah," Spot let Jack digest all of what he said before asking. "Have yous hoyd anyt'ing outta Queens?" 

"Not a sound," Jack was frowning. "How many o' yous boys ah down?" 

"Five ah outta sellin'," Spot reflected, sharing information that he wouldn't want anyone else to know. "Pro'ly 'bout ten in all can't fight," he watched his friends eyes widen. 

"Ah dey yous fightahs?" Jack leaned against the lamppost behind him, the street's activity buzzing around them.

Jack knew the setup of the Brooklyn newsies. If a newsie stayed long enough with the Brooklyn group to be considered a true newsie, they were given a position. Most of the smaller, quicker, less conspicuous boys were Spot's little birdies, in other words, his spies. All collect information for him from the different territories. The bigger stronger ones were his fighters, they were the ones that helped to keep other territories out and keep his territory in line. The ones that didn't fit in either of those categories were his messengers, also known as runners. It was a highly organized and understood pattern that every Brooklyn boy knew. They also knew that having ten to fifteen fighters unable to fight took their ranks down considerably.

So when Spot nodded, affirming his question, Jack whistled under his breath. "We can't lose no moah o' dem," Spot said steadily. "If dese Queens' bastahds wanna fight, I'se not shuah if we'se can take 'em," Spot shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, not liking the fact that he knew his words were true, or that he had to admit them. Though if there was to be a territory battle, he wanted to make sure he could count on Jack to help.

"You knows that wes'll all fight foah ya," Jack lazily extended an arm to indicate all of the Manhattan boys before crossing it back against his chest. 

"Yeah, I knows you will Jackie Boy," Spot gave his trademark smug grin, before his face fell into a stony mask that not even the most astute eye could read.

"You's woyied, Brooklyn?" Jack raised his eyebrows, taking a guess at his friend's hidden thoughts.

"Not wit' Manhattan on my side," Spot answered loosely, and Jack chuckled. The recognizable sarcasm in his companion's tone was relieving even if he hadn't gotten a real answer for his question. The mood lightened as Spot cracked a smirk to accompany Jack's soft laugh, and Jack knew that he was done talking of business.

"Whot evah happen ta dat goil ya asked Sarah 'bout?" Jack switched subjects, digging into his pocket, hoping to find a cigarette. He did, and was working on lighting it when Spot reacted.

"Whot?" Spot's eyebrows raised quickly, then he seemed to realize that he was showing some non-controlled emotion and lowered them again. "Oh, her," he looked off to the side and then back at Jack. "Whot 'bout 'er?" he was back to his calm, cool, collected self again.

"Who is she?" Jack asked, trying to gain some information on a girl that Spot just wanted to 'be nice to.'

"Just a real nice goil dats got a bad faddah," he shrugged as if it was common knowledge. "Guess ya could say I undahstand 'er," he shoved his free hand into his pocket and swung his cane in his other.

"She a newsie?" Jack was amused at his friend's non-accustom nervousness. It was rare that the great Spot Conlon showed anything but his obvious high opinion of himself. Though even in his uncomfortable behavior, he was still very much the cocky leader that everyone knew.

"No," Spot shook his head. 

"Fact'ry woyker?" Jack tried.

"No," Spot mumbled.

"Street walkah?" Jack knew that his friend had been in relationship with all the girls of such.

"_No_," Spot shook his head at the last suggestion.

"She ain't some high class dame is she?" Jack rolled his eyes, knowing that this kind of relationship would be hopeless. 

"Gawd no," Spot was getting tired of this guessing game.

"Oahphan?" Again Jack's suggestion was shot from the sky. "Bah maid?" he pried, growing frustrated at his friend's constant denial. "Shop woykah?" he scratched the back of his head before re-crossing his arms across his chest. "Den who in da hell is she?" Jack asked, perturbed. 

"Ya know da daughtah o' da lodgin' house ownah?" Spot reached up and took Jack cigarette from his mouth, bringing it to his own lips. It was a good thing that Spot had taken it because Jack's mouth dropped at his announcement. 

"Yous like dat goil?" Jack stood up straight, ceasing to lean against the poll.

"No," Spot denied quickly, coolly. "She just ain't got nobody an' 'er pop is rough on 'er, so I'se just bein' nice ta 'er," Spot explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world and Jack looked at him with disbelief.

"Yous jus' bein' nice ta a goil?" The skeptisism in his voice combed with amusement.

"Yeah, I'se jus' bein' nice ta 'er," Spot scowled as his friend as he began to chuckle, and then laugh. There was nothing funny about this situation and the way Jack was laughing made his hackles rise. Why would he even be laughing? If he knew Emily, he knew that he wouldn't be laughing. Or maybe he would be laughing harder, this thought made him even more agitated. 

Lifting his cane, he whacked the cowboy over the head. His laughter stopped abruptly, but his eyes still shone with mirth as he rubbed the sore spot on his head. Jack knew that his friend could have knocked him out with that stick if he wanted to, so he was thankful that all he got was a lump. The black fire that shone in his friend's icy eyes told him that he had struck a nerve. Perhaps he was telling the truth and was only being nice to the girl, but that went against Spot's whole code. Perhaps after Frost's departure, he had turned over a new leaf, but that was highly unlikely.

So with his eyes still shining, Jack spoke, "Whotevah you say Brooklyn." Jack smiled knowingly, and his friend only scowled. "Whotevah you say."

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//So here I stand,

For you to use,

Broken and bruised,

Dead and abused…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

"'Ow many o' da Brooklyn newsies can fight?" The same oaf that had questioned Pips circled Fire. 

"I'se tellin' ya I don' know," Fire groaned from hearing the same question again and again.

"An' I'se tellin' ya dat ya do, yous a Brooklyn newsie, ya gots ta know somet'ing," The oaf stopped and stood in front of him. A ray of the day's last light glimmered through the dirty broken window of an old storage warehouse. The sound of rats scurrying among the boxes was heard in the stillness. Dozen or so boys stood in the circle surrounding Fire and the oaf. Their faces set as stone, in their hands were clubs or brass knuckles.

Fire looked ready to collapse, but he remained standing. His face bled from the nose, and his lips were cracked and dry. The bruises on his face were deep and many. His clothes were even more tattered and torn than before and blood splattered across them. His hair was tangled and filthy looking, almost looking matted beyond repair. The light shone down on this pathetic sight as the sun hurried away from the sky, hiding her self from the evils that took place beneath her light.

"Bruisah," A voice came from the crowd. "Come ovah heah," the circle of boys parted another one entered, his voice calm. "Dat's enough for now," he spoke with deadly authority that Fire had only seen in Spot before. This boy must have been some sort of leader because of the way he bossed around the group. His face was strongly set with strong features and a jutting chin. The most noticeable of his features were his eyes. One was as dark as night, the other the lightest sky blue possible. It was a uniquely grotesque combination and Fire felt himself cringe.

"I'se got some questions foah ouah lil' friend," the leader spoke, look on his face was friendly and amiable, but his voice was not. Swallowing hard, Fire steeled himself for the questions to come. Something told him that this boy excelled in being cruel. "You knows why we'se got ya heah, don'cha?" The boy asked Fire, his strange eyes flashing as his voice was as silk, lined with thunder.

"Yous t'ink dat I'se wit' Conlon's newsies," Fire managed to say from his parched throat, his last drink having been the night before.

"A bright boy," the lad with two-toned eyes smiled wickedly as his fist lashed out and pressed itself forcefully into Fire's stomach. Weak from hunger, Fire doubled over. "Now you's going to be smaht an' tell me whot I needs ta know," The leader growled.

Fire gasped for breath and the world began to spin around him. The lack of food wasn't new, but he had always had some source of water. Here he had neither. His nights hadn't been restful either, the questions would go late into the night, and his broken body screamed out in agony. At first he had been foolish enough to fight, now he was paying the price. The words he now heard were blurred and distant, as though coming from the end of a tunnel. The last thought he had was how much he hurt, then he hit the ground.

"Get up!" The boy known as Bruiser kicked at the lump on the ground. When Fire didn't move, he kicked harder then the two-toned boy held up his hand that Bruiser stopped mid-kick. His unusual eyes flicking over the limp form in the ground, then up to the larger abuse giver that he called Bruiser.

"We'se done wit' dis one," he muttered. "He ain't no good no more.

"But Lice, he ain't tellin' us not'in, just like dat oder brat," Bruiser complained. 

"I don't cahah," The leader, Lice glared at the larger boy. "I ain't heah ta listen ta youah opinions, I'se heah ta get some answahs," Lice pointed at Fire on the ground. "An' he ain't givin' me none."

"'E will if we keeps 'im long enough," Bruiser muttered.

"We don' have da time, we'se gotta know now!" Lice yelled. "Now yous take 'im back ta Brooklyn an I want somebody dat can get me to Spot Conlon or da boy 'imself!" Lice threw up his arms in disgust. "Bruisah, Rat, Driftah," he listed. "Take dis wort'less t'ing back ta Brooklyn. Make shuah nobody sees ya," He snapped his fingers and everyone moved. After the area was cleared, Lice remained.

Standing in the empty circle, the fading sun promising the fall of night soon. Clenched fists hung as his side as dark thoughts passed through his mind. Senseless ramblings went through his mind, filtering different thoughts through a web of confusion and hate. There was purpose behind those eyes though. In all of those jumbled thoughts there was a single burning reason, a single goal.

"I'se goin' ta get ya Conlon," Lice whispered vehemently to himself. "Just ya wait, I'se going to get whot I wants from ya," with those words, he too exited the circle.

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Tell me what you're thinking,

Cause I really want to know,

Tell me what you dream,

Let your real side show…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

The nightly escape route was becoming so normal, that Spot almost did it mindlessly now. The outcropping didn't seem as narrow, and the corner wasn't so treacherous. He found himself sometimes sitting on the first story of the roof sometimes and just thinking. The little landing had one window against the building that led out to the small space. Right underneath the roof was the kitchen. Tonight was no exception to the formed normality of Spot's exit pathway that is until he turned the corner.

As always, the roof was bathed in the moonlight, it's flat surface illuminated by the glow of the lesser sun. It's own reflected light refracting down onto the earth. Only something was very different tonight as Spot rounded the corner, the roof wasn't empty. Blinking, he frowned, thinking it must just be an apparition. 

The ghostly figure stood in a nightdress on the roof, the thin white cotton material seeming out of place in the darkness. Long black hair flowed down her back and the white skin seemed even paler under the moonlight. It was Emily. What was she doing on the roof in the middle of the night, and why did Spot have to care? Cursing under his breath, he continued to move no point in just waiting around because of some girl.

"Whot ah you'se doin' up on da roof?" Spot called softly as he moved along the outcropping. Emily started at the sound of another voice and whirled around to see him there. 

"What are you doing here?" She gasped, wrapping her arms around herself, obviously embarrassed that he had caught her in her nightgown. 

"I'se getting' outta heah wit'out youah pops knowin' dat I'se heah," He moved carefully making quick time to the roof. "Whot 'bout yous?" 

"I was thinking," Her eyes followed him along the wall. "You could get yourself killed doing that!" She reprimanded.

"Nah," Spot shook her head. "I'se pretty good at dis," he jumped from the fairly large gap from the ledge to the roof. "See?" he said, spreading his arms to show he was fine. She looked at him warily and he knew that she was uncomfortable, so clearing his throat, he sat on the cool hard surface of the roof. Trying to ease her discomfort, he attempted a start at conversation. "Whot cha been t'inkin 'bout?" he started, beckoning for her to come sit by him. She hesitated but came.

"Things," she answered, sitting beside him, but not too close. Her hair fell around her face like a veil, shielding her face from view.

"Whot kinda t'ings?" Spot prodded further, brushing her hair behind her ear so he could see her face. '_Gawd she's got soft heyah_,' he retracted his hand quickly, not wanting to think about it. Trying to think of something to do with his hands, he leaned back on them, supporting his weight as they sat.

"You don't want to know, it's silly really," she smiled to herself, then looked back at him. "Why were you sneaking out this way?" She scrunched her little, upturned nose.

"You'se faddah locks da doah at curfew," he informed, noting her deft attempt to change the subject. "I'se guessin' dat youah da don't know dat yous sneakin' out heah ta t'ink at night," Spot tilted his head to one side, and his cap fell off. He made no effort to retrieve it.

"No," she turned her head away again, blushing as she curled her legs to her chest the snowy white gown she was wearing covered her feet.

"Whot ya need ta come out heah ta t'ink 'bout?" Spot pried, he wanted to know what she had been thinking. It promised to be interesting. In many ways her mind functioned much like a child's, but in so many ways, it didn't. Their previous conversations had revealed that there was much more than one would gather from a brief first meeting.

"Do you really want to know?" She asked weakly, her voice soft in the night air.

"Yeah," Spot sucked in his breath when she looked at him again with those bright green eyes. 

"Well," she paused. "I was thinking about love," she answered.

"Love?" He blinked, surprised. What could have inspired such a girl to think about that?

"Yes, love," she nodded. "Have you ever been in love?" she inquired.

"I… uh… I'se t'ink I was once," Spot sputtered, referring to Frost. 

"Who was she?" Emily looked up into his eyes like she was trying to see inside of them.

"She were a goil dat lived heah," Spot swallowed. "You remembah Frost doncha?" He asked and Emily nodded. "Dat's 'er. I t'ink I were in love wit' 'er," he exhaled deeply, that hadn't been as hard as he thought it would have been. Confessing to someone that he might have loved another human, if only he had told Frost that when he had the chance… shaking that thought from his head, he returned to the conversation. "Has you ever been in love?"

"I don't know," Emily frowned. "How do you know if you're in love?"

"Dat's a hard question," Spot told her. "But I don't know much 'bout love," he told her, looking into her eyes. "I guess dat you jus' knows... but I don't knows much 'bout whot love is, but I knows a lot moah 'bout whot love ain't."

"Then tell me about that then," She shook her hair behind her shoulders.

"'Bout whot love ain't?" Spot asked, unsure of what she meant.

"Yes," she nodded her head, her slight accent playing in his ears.

For a moment he just looked at her, completely unable to think of what to say. Words had never been his strong point, he hadn't ever been able to spout out poetry like some of the boys. Turning his profile to her, he frowned slightly, staring into the brick wall of another building. Taking a deep breath, Spot attempted to describe the feeling he knew all too well.

"Love ain't dat feelin' dat you gets in youah gut when ya sees dem," Spot spoke slowly. "It ain't when ya heaht beats real fast neither," he thought hard before continuing. "Dats just when ya likes a poyson, I don't t'ink ya feel dat when ya loves somebody," He shook his head. "I guess dat yous can feel some o' dat, but dere is somet'ing else dere too," he tried to find something, anything to place the feeling, but failed. "But I don't knows much 'bout nothin'," he shrugged, trying the rarely used self-deprecating humor.

An awkward silence ensued, both mulling over their own thoughts while knowing that they should say something to each other. Neither one of them knew exactly what they should be saying. The summer night sky was clear for the most part, except for the few patches of clouds, so thin you could almost see through them. Tiny pinpricks of light shone against the black canopy, as the noises of a city night turned around them.

"Whot ya askin' me all dis foah?" Spot finally asked, this conversation brought up an assortment of painful and uncomfortable emotions.

"I - I just thought that you might know," Emily stuttered slightly and she looked away from him. "You know so much about - things I don't. I've never even been out of Brooklyn," She admitted, a slight trace of awe and longing tainted her voice. "But you are so - free," she looked at him again with her large green eyes. "You've seen so many things that I - I can't even imagine," Emily's eyes scoured his face, like she was reading him. "I bet you've even kissed someone before," she said in her plain, soft, childish way.

Something inside of Spot cringed and he looked away before answering. "I'se kissed goils afoah," he didn't tell her that just tonight he had traded the last of his 'kisses' he had won from the poker match. He also didn't tell her how much more he had done besides kissing.

"I wonder - sometimes - what it's like to be kissed," Emily looked up at the sky wistfully, her voice growing very distant. "What's it like?" she turned back to look at him, a childlike glow radiated from her luminous green eyes and he swiveled his head to look at her.

"Ta be kissed?" His eyebrows shot skywards, and she nodded. "Well," he hesitated, getting his thoughts together. "It's like…" he drifted off and blinked a few times as though being broken from a spell. 

What in the hell was he doing? Sitting on the roof of the lodging house with a girl he couldn't get involved with, talking about everything they shouldn't be talking about. Somewhere he had let his guard down, and it made him edgy that he hadn't even noticed. This wasn't the way he acted, this wasn't the way he was! He was Spot Conlon, and no big pair of green eyes was going to change that.

"Why you askin' me 'bout dis?" He asked, narrowing his eyes slightly, bringing back up the masks that had fallen.

"Oh, I guess it's because - oh never mind - this is silly," she blushed and even by the glow of the moon Spot could see the color deepening on her pale cheeks.

"Tell me," Spot pried, almost commanding, his curiosity piqued.

"It's just that -" she paused, seeming almost to try and decide if she was going to tell him or not. A strange flickering of emotions crossed her face as she looked up at him, almost like she was searching for something. Finally she opened her mouth to speak again. "I - I'll never know," she hesitated, frowning at the non-sensible words that came out as she spoke. "I'll never know what it is like ta be kissed," She clarified softly. "First hand that is," a gentle smile full of sorrow pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I know that I'm not pretty, me da has told me so," she raised a hand and pushed the dark locks of hair away from her face.

"You's not ugly," the denial sprang to Spot's lips as he took her hand in his and she looked down at his hand as his fingers intertwined with hers. 

"You're a sweet, lad," she smiled again. The same wistful smile full of longing and her voice grew very far away. "When I was little, my mum used to tell me stories before I went to sleep. She told me a story once about the stars," She looked up at sky, the relatively clear summer night provided quite a canvas for the stretch of beauty before them. "She said that every time two people who truly loved each other died, they became a star," The stars stretched above them, winking and twinkling at them and she smiled again, closing her eyes. "I used to pray every night that I would become a star so I would be beautiful and live forever," she sighed deeply before turning to him. "But I suppose that sounds silly to you, doesn't it?" Her eyes were distant as they looked into his, the moon played over her smooth skin and he grinned slightly.

"Nah," he said sincerely. The childish fantasy was strangely appealing to him; maybe because he knew that he still held onto his own dreams like that. Sometimes they were the only things that got him through the day. The romantic daydreams of a child whose soul care was how they were going to have fun, the innocence of youth so bitterly spoiled before its time. Leaving only fragmented memories and the tattered dreams of a child. "I t'ink dat youah muddah musta been a helluva woman," he was slightly surprised when his own very mild language didn't offend her. Maybe she wasn't as innocent as he thought she was, oh but if she only knew how much he censored himself for her sake.

"Yes," Emily agreed. "She was."

They looked at each other for a long time, the moonlight playing with their minds. A strange kind of feeling settled over Spot's entire body. Contentment would have been a good word for it. It had been a long time since he had felt anything like this and he liked it. He could have sat on that roof for the rest of his life with Emily and never been dissatisfied. Possessively, he squeezed her hand tightly, never wanting her to leave him. This time she didn't blush, or look embarrassed, she smiled at him, and her eyes sparkling and it looked like all the stars in the sky were shining in them. Looking up at the sky, they sat on that roof in silence for a long time. Leaning against Spot's shoulder, fingers still locked, Emily sighed. Looking down at her, then back up at the sky, Spot smiled.

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Peace is what they tell me,

Love am I unholy,

Lies are what they tell me,

Despise you that control me…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

As tired as he was, he couldn't help but swing his cane from side to side as he walked. Something very strange had been happening to him and he wasn't quite sure what, and he wasn't quite sure if he liked it, but something was happening. Butterflies weren't pounding in his stomach, and his palms weren't sweating like they always had before when he thought he liked a girl. The heart racing rush he was used to have abandoned him, and he was confused. He had just told Emily that love wasn't all of those things, that it was something deeper, and his own definition was starting to haunt him.

Then again, he had confessed that he himself hadn't known what love was, and that you would just 'know' when it struck. It couldn't be love then, could it?

Since he didn't have any of the normal symptoms of love, did that just mean that his unusually long celibacy was wearing on him? Frost had been gone for months. At the thought of Frost, Spot's hand automatically went to the cross the hung from his neck. The bitter feeling of loss filled him at the reminder of Frost's untimely departure. Strangely, the loss didn't strike him as hard as it normally did. Somewhere along the line, the pain had receded and Spot wasn't sure when it had happened but it had. Maybe it had happened when Emily had come along…. 

Shoving his thoughts of Emily aside, he tried to focus on the memory of Frost. Pausing from his walk, he pressed his eyes shut and tried to picture her in his mind. There were the dark eyes and the masses of chestnut hair, the nose that looked like it had been broken and the thin lips, but he couldn't configure them to form her face. Swearing under his breath he clutched his head, why couldn't he remember the image of her face? It hadn't been that long had it? As he tried to formulate any kind of a simulation of her face he was taken back to so many different painful places. 

The memories of her standing on the bridge, her face turned from him. The images of her running from him, leaving him with nothing but her retreating figure in his view. The times she had ducked away from his touch, how she had looked up at him with her big green eyes. No, wait, Frost's eyes had been black, not green. Where had the green eyes come from? A face that was most definitely not Frost's formulated in his mind and he swore as Emily's face continued to construct again and again. Why had the one thing he had left of Frost left him? Was it the lack of use, the repressing of those painful thoughts? Was it because he didn't want to remember? Was it because of Emily?

Shaking these things from his mind, he reasoned that it was simply because he was tired. That he was too, exhausted would have been a better word for it. Late night hours were his habit, not the best choice when he had to rise at the crack of dawn. Though the less time he slept, the less time he dreamt. Many long bloodshot hours had been spent awake in the dark. Always to be spent alone though, he never did seek solace in the arms of another.

It wasn't for lack of opportunity that Spot hadn't been with a woman. The streets of Brooklyn were full of hardened young girls or woman who would let him do anything he pleased for a low price. The bars were full of girls who flaunted their sexuality and invited the stolen kisses and rude treatment.

Also there were the girl newsies that had joined the ranks of Brooklyn over time. In fact, their numbers were substantial enough that the old boarding master, Emily's father, had made a separate room for them out of an old unused storage closet that had been filled with junk. The money he had paid for it had been quite lofty, but he had money coming in from some outside source. The money couldn't be that extensive because he was still the owner of a Lodging house for a bunch of runaways and orphans. Poor Emily, the way her father cut her off from everything in the outside world made Spot sick.

Again he was thinking about that girl. Why was it that whenever he started to think about something, his thoughts would always drift back to her? Spot didn't want to like this girl; he didn't want to have anything to do with her! Everything about her were things that he had laughed about in the past, the naive behavior, the unhardened heart, the innocence, all of these he had mocked in people before. Manners and kindness didn't get you far in Brooklyn, period.

Kicking at a stone with his shoe, he watched it skip down the rugged street. These streets weren't even covered with the lowly cobblestones that so many were. These streets were where people killed and got killed. These streets were full of death and fighting; he wondered how many times he had fought for his life and honor on these passageways. His friends had died on these streets. So had his enemies, cursing Spot till the end. These streets weren't where Emily should have to live. 

Swearing aloud at the thought of Emily, he kicked the hard packed ground. The ground was so hard that not even a small could of dust reward him for his efforts. It really was dry here. All of these old wooden buildings were mere kindling sticks if a spark struck them. Spot's shack was no exception, but the old brick building where the newsies lived should keep Emily fairly safe. If anything happened she would have a better chance of getting out in time. 

A string of vile curse words flowed from him as freely as if he was spout flowing water. Why did every thought have to tie back to Emily? He didn't want to like her, he didn't want to think about her, and he didn't want to care. The real Spot Conlon didn't care about anyone, especially not some girl who didn't know the first thing about life on the streets. A girl who didn't know the first thing about being alone in the world didn't have a place in Spot's world.

Everything about his life wreaked of the streets and his few skills professed his wayward ways. Five skills in which Spot excelled were cursing, spitting, lying, stealing, and poker, not necessarily in that order. Along with the skill of poker came the cool hand, steely eye, and the mastered work of cheating. Spot could out-spit, out-curse, or out-lie any boy in the area. Perhaps that was why he was the leader. Being a leader was a lonely life though. No one he could really talk to, maybe that is why he was attracted to Emily, he felt that he could confide in her. 

Slamming open the door to his shack, he mentally reprimanded himself. A man was a master of his thoughts, and he was going to master his. No more thinking about that girl or how she had cooled him down, or the girl who listened to him, or the girl who had the father she didn't deserve, or the girl who… Slamming a fist against the old wooden plank wall, he pounded until he felt his frustrations of the day leave him. There was no reason that he should have to feel so out of control. He was his own master, and he had to remember that, and no pair of pretty green eyes was going to make him forget that.

A loud crack made him stop his mindless assault of the boards. The one he had been pounding had split, cracking at the place of abuse. Looking at his hand, he grimaced, as he couldn't see anything in the dark of his hut. Stepping outside into the semi-dark he inspected the damage. All of his knuckles were bleeding, seeping blood slowly. He should have known better than to slam his fist repeatedly into wood. Splinters made dark slashes in his skin and he smiled bitterly before returning to the darkness. It already hurt and he knew it would only be worse in the morning. 

Hopefully it wouldn't get infected, though infected wounds wouldn't be new to him. In the refuge he had plenty, but the scars that had once covered his arms and torso were beginning to slowly fade away along with the painful memories. Though like everything that has left a scar, it will never completely fade. There will always be a remnant of a memory, a touch of remembrance.

Exhausted, he stripped down to the absolute minimal of clothes and lay down on his uncomfortable, lumpy, makeshift bed. At least he had a mattress, which was more than a lot of people had tonight. Drifting off in the blissful state of subconscious utopia, his last remembered thoughts were how he hoped he wouldn't dream about Emily.

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Pain so real,

There is no dream,

It's all you feel,

It's your being…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

The next thing Fire remembered was waking up to a pounding in his head. _Wheah am I?_ He wondered. _Am I still in Queens?_ His questions went unanswered as he tried to open his eyes. Darkness invaded them, slowly different things began to become clear. He was out on a street, he wasn't in the warehouse anymore, he was free, and oh how he ached.

Trying to stand, he tried to get his bearings. Where exactly was he? Bracing himself against the wall of a building, he finally recognized the border area between Queens and Brooklyn. They must have dumped him here after he passed out. Shakily, he began to move but he hurt everywhere. Every few steps he had to stop to regain his balance, his equilibrium shot. The urge to vomit was nearly overwhelming, but he knew he had nothing in his stomach to give, so he forced himself onward step by painful step.

It was going to be along trip back to the lodging house.

****

. : ^_^ : .

The next day the boys were abuzz as they approached the gates of the distribution center. Spot noticed their change in moods and decided to investigate. He knew that if he simply listened he would probably get more information out of them than if he interrupted. The mix of voices talking in excited tones was surprising. Many of the boys that had been taken out were back now. Worm was back again and so was Fish, he noted with approval. Maybe they could take on Queens. Listening to the conversations was a little harder this morning because everyone was talking to everybody with voices higher in pitch and faster than normal. One word that Spot heard more than once was 'Fire' and the other was 'found'. Finally he spoke.

"Whot's dis 'bout Fiah?" his steely eyes roamed the group.

"We'se found 'im dis mornin'," Outsider informed, coming forward to his customary spot beside his leader.

"On da lodgin' house steps," Ghost piped up.

"Is 'e dead?" Spot asked coolly, cursing Emily's father for keeping the door locked.

"No," Spice entered the conversation. "'E's just in a bad way."

"How bad?" Spot's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"'E weren't awake when we left 'im," Spice cowered under the intense stare.

"Anybody know who did dis?" Spot scoured the group of quiet boys who seemed very out of place on this rough busy street. Just like a boy in his Sunday best playing in a mud puddle, they looked very out of place. All of them shook their heads; some of them looked at the toe of their boots or plucked imaginary lint off the front of their shirts. "Queens," Spot breathed, enraged. Thankfully for all of them, the gates opened and they headed for the day's work.

__

Da bastahds ah goin' ta pay foah dis, Spot made the mental promise. _Is'll make dem pay oah die tryin'_, it was frightful how true that statement, though silent, would become.

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Shadow play,

Dancing across my wall,

Shadow play,

Isn't real at all…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

A shadow lurked in the darkness, waiting, waiting for that perfect moment to come out into the sun. The shadow smiled mirthlessly as he watched the boys and girls file into the large courtyard that they knew so well. Poor saps, it chuckled throatily. How little did they know... their world was about to be turned upside down. The immortal Spot Conlons was about to be toppled from his throne of greatness and learn what it was like to be humiliated. Yes, soon, it would be very soon, but not now. The time was later. Later everything would fall into place, later everything would be perfect, later Spot Conlon's power would be destroyed. Melting into the crowd, the shadow blended into nothing, and disappeared.

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//In a hurry,

To get things done,

Rushing, rushing,

Till live is no fun…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

Things were bustling on the streets of New York. Everyone rushing somewhere that they thought was important but far from it. Woman held children close to their skirts as they bustled along, buying bread for their family. Men rushed gruffly through the byways that they knew by heart as they hurried to some appointment for which they were late. Despite the number of people, selling was lousy. Maybe it was the heat. It was just as hot as every other day, no breeze to offer relief, no atonement for the people in this hell. 

"Extrie! Extrie! Read all 'bout it!" A newsies' cry could be heard echoing throughout the whole city. The boys and girls cried out with their headlines, improved or not, trying to sell their papers. Trying to make it through the day, trying to survive in their damn-awful surrounding and scrape enough together to afford a bed and a meal that night. The only newsie that didn't seem to be having a problem was the dubious Spot. As always he was selling his papers left and right, using his charm and skill to move his merchandise faster than the next guy does. The ladies loved him, the mothers had pity on him, the men respected his shrewd approach, and the children looked at his ever-present cane and his slingshot in awe. 

The infamous Spot Conlon worked his magic throughout the day. Selling papers better than even the Cowboy over in Manhattan with a style and class that all the other Newsies envied. He was aware of all this of course, not a day went by that he didn't know he was superior to his comrades. Also a day didn't go by that he didn't feel the pangs of hunger or the longing to be someone else… anyone else. For being feared had its advantages, but it also had it's disadvantages. Being famous and revered didn't compare to the feeling of someone actually caring about him. Is that why he was drawn to Emily? She didn't fear him or treat him differently, she just accepted him. No, he wouldn't think about it, not here, and not now. Now was time to sell papers and think about important things. Now was the time that he would think about Queens and what exactly he would do about them.

Could they take them if they went into a battle with them? Should he go over to Queens and try and find the disreputable Lice? He wouldn't go alone. Spot might have had power and guts, but he didn't have brain and more than just half of one. No one was that stupid, except maybe the few idiots that had gone too close to the border alone. Clenching his teeth at the thought, Spot took a nickel from a man who grabbed a paper and didn't bother to get change. The chances for dinner were looking good tonight. Maybe he would get together with Cowboy and a few others and try to work this out before it was too late. This whole situation was a time bomb and he was left holding it, the timer growing closer and closer to zero.

Tonight he would have some answers, tonight he would talk to Fire, and tonight he would get to know what he wanted to know. At least that is what he hoped today. Today he hoped that his papers would sell, today he hoped that he would be able to find the answers to the questions he had, today he just wanted to survive. But tonight he would get answers. Maybe tonight he would be able to disarm the bomb in his hands before it exploded in his face.

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A/N: Love it, hate it, flame it, praise it, just review it! Reviews means more motivation for more writing, - cough - cough - - hint - hint - Nah I'm just kidding, I'll write anyway, but reviews really does make it better. ^_^ You all are writers, you know what I mean. Candy-corn for all of my beloved reviewers. Thanks to for coming back and reviewing chapter two, I love you guys. Take cares everyone and may the muses be kind to you. ^_^


	4. Love is Blind

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, no infringement is intended, so don't sue me.

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A/N: Thank you all for being so incredibly patient for this chapter. I'm sorry I had to go out of town, it isn't my entire fault! Well here you go, I personally am partial to this chapter because after this it gets so darn depressing. This chapter is my idea of fluff. He, he… - Sigh - I liked writing this chapter because after this it is all down hill. - Sob - sob -

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Warning: This chapter is rated PG - 13 for mild language, and domestic abuse.

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Chapter 4: Love is Blind

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"_For love is blind and lovers cannot see…_"   
-- William Shakespeare

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The sweat poured down his face as he ran for his life. He was unsure of why he ran or from what, but he ran for dear life, turning every corner of every alleyway. Still something pursued him. Breathing heavily, he turned his steel-blue eyes in all directions, thinking of a way of escape. Something was burning him on his chest. Looking down, he saw that the cross and key hanging on his neck were searing his skin. Tearing at them, he tried to pull them off. Before that could happen, the ground beneath him opened and he was swallowed into all consuming darkness.

Spot shot bolt upright in his bed, gulping down air and pushing his hair out of his face. It was a dream, another one of those dreams. The darkness was back. That burning blackness that promised to envelope him in it's eternal night. Groping for the cross around his neck, he found it there, the cool metal pressed against his palm.

Chest still heaving, he looked around his dingy shack. It barely had enough room for his small corncob mattress, and the suns first beams were shining through the cracks he needed to patch. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he allowed his breathing to return to normal before he rose to get dressed.

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//Here in this collapsed lung of a borough,

There is no sunlight,

The sunlight is manufactured,

In a windowless room…//

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"**Drought Caused by God's Disfavor**," Proclaimed the headline and Spot wrinkled his nose in disgust. News must have been very slow for them to bring religion into the main headline. "_Priests Say that Immorality is the Cause for the Lack of Rain_," The subtitle scrawled underneath.

Muttering some non-understandable babble about the stupidity of the entire situation, Spot readjusted his cap, grasped his cane and headed out the gate. If he were lucky, he would sell out fast and maybe be able to find some relief from the intense heat. He had some business to attend to.

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//The bruises on her face will go away,

Mom keeps him home from school till they fade,

She's sorry he was born and tells him so,

She takes it in, she hangs her chin, she ducks another blow…//

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Emily stood over the kitchen stove, cooking the lunch meal for her father. Today he had told her that he would be home for lunch and she had better be sure to have lunch for him. Normally she would spend the whole day upstairs in her quarters, the doors locked against intruders. Today, she was in the kitchen slaving over the hot stove trying to prepare some sort of meal for her father.

The lunch was prepared and she was quite hot, overly so in fact. Opening a window to the alley by the kitchen, she let out some of the heat from the baking activities. Using the pump, she poured some water into a large wooden tub and began scrubbing the utensils she had used to prepare the meal. Today she didn't want to risk her father's displeasure.

The water-cooled her hands somewhat and she pressed the moisture onto her flushed cheeks. The heat wasn't the only thing that was making her face red, she had been thinking about Spot. The other night had been wonderful, just to be held by someone with no complication and no string attached. Oh but there were complications weren't there? Yes there were, she was falling for this strange street rat who had showed her the smallest kindnesses. 

Lifting a dish from the water, she stood and began to dry it. Soon it shone with the noontime light as it flooded the kitchen. Right above them was where she and Spot had sat a few nights ago. His rough hand had held hers as she leaned against his warm shoulder. Lost in her own world, she didn't hear her father come in. 

"What are you doing?" He asked in his loud manner, finding his daughter staring blankly at a dish. She started and the dish slipped from her grip sending it crashing to the floor. The shattering noise was deafening in the silence of the kitchen and her father's face turned bright red with anger. "You stupid good-for-nothing!" he yelled, storming over to her. Raising his hand, he slapped her soundly across the face. "That should teach you to be more careful!" His words were forceful, hard, cold, and merciless.

Holding her hand to the injured cheek, Emily held back the tears. "Your lunch is ready," she said shakily. "It's on the table," she pointed to the small room directly off of the kitchen that held only a small table and a few chairs. Kneeling she began dutifully picking up the shards. 

No more words were spoken between the father and the daughter, she was accustom to his abuses, but every stinging slap added to her self doubt. She heard him stand from the table in the other room and walk towards the door. He was going out again. Never once did he ever make attempt to tell her where he was going, or even if he was going, he just left. The door opened and closed with a bang but Emily continued to clean the bits of glass that littered the floor. With every shard, her tears welled up further behind her eyes. After she had finished and disposed of the shrapnel, she found the broom and began to clean the area further.

If Emily was one thing, she was clean. Everything had to be in order, everything had to be clean, if they weren't, and her father would be displeased. That meant that she would be in trouble, and that wasn't something she wanted to be. At the thought of being punished her cheek began to sting with a new wave of injury. The thought of her father kept her going as she went into the dining room and picked up the plates and glass that he had used. Placing them into the already full basin of water, she began to scrub.

It was only then that the tears began to fall. Their salty water mixing with that swirling in the tub. She knew that she shouldn't cry, that it would make her father angry to know she was crying, but she couldn't help it. All she wanted was to please him, to make him love her, but instead all she did was make him even more upset. Maybe if she wasn't so stupid or ugly he would like her better, but Spot had said she wasn't ugly. 

He was most likely just being kind, and she brushed at the tears with the back of her sleeve. Everything was so confused right now. Everything was so complicated. Why had she ever been born into this world? Surely there was a reason, though she couldn't see it now, but even as she scrubbed she could feel the bruise forming on her cheek. Shame flooded her, knowing the mark that it would leave. This was the punishment she would bear for not being good enough. At this thought, her tears began to flow harder still.

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//Like a bad star,

I'm falling faster down to her,

She's the only one,

That knows what it is to burn…//

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A breeze from the northeast blew into New York, offering little relief from the heat. Now not only was it unbearably hot, they were drowning in the humidity. Trails of sweat dripped from the workers in the factories and newsies alike. The humidity wrapped the city like a blanket, but with the moisture came the chance of rain. A welcome change that would be, for the headlines and for the community. 

Spot moved through these hot streets with the trained ease of years of experience. Papers were sold, and it was mid-afternoon so he was headed to the lodging house. The afternoon edition would be out soon, but he didn't need to sell that one. He left that edition for the others, for those that worked only the afternoon shift, such as the school-going children, or the younger ones. Also, this was the time that he normally spent with Emily for the reason that no one else was ever there. 

Her father was always gone and the other newsies never sold out this fast, and most sold the afternoon edition. Inside, he knew there were some things that he needed to do before he went to talk to Emily, but he felt the undeniable urge to be with her. They hadn't seen each other since that night on the roof, and he felt the all consuming want to feel that contentment again. 

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I'll be able ta see Fiah, too, Spot justified his visits with a practical explanation. He needed to talk to Fire and see what had happened. 

Tension was building between the groups still. No more attacks had been made since Fire reappeared, but there was still a gap in the able bodied young men. Spot knew that something was going to happen and it was going to happen soon. The scattered and seemingly random attacks were just a precursor to the larger scale of things. Queens was planning something, and Spot wanted to know what.

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//I'm on the outside,

And I'm looking in,

And I can see through you,

See your true colors…//

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"I still don' undahstand," Bruiser scratched his head. "Why can't we just take 'im?"

"Because," Lice said tensely, "We'se jus' can't walk inta Brooklyn an' take 'im, 'e's too populah," the leader sat in the darkness with a few of the other Queens' boys. "We knows dat now. Doe's newsies were wit' Spot an' we knows it, but dey didn't tell us notin', you knows why?" 

"Cause dey like 'im?" Drifter offered.

"Right," Lice nodded. "Dey likes 'im an' dey ah afraid o' 'im."

"So whot's we goin' ta do 'bout it?" Bruiser asked. "We can't just sits 'round doin' not'in. We ain't sellin' papes too good 'round heah," he scowled. "We needs some new terrahtory."

"An' we'se goin' ta get it, from Brooklyn," Lice promised. "But right now, we'se goin' ta wait," the leader cross his arms across his chest.

"We ain't goin' ta do not'in?" Drifter exclaimed his question. "We'se gotta do somet'ing, da boys ah talkin' 'bout how dey want Brink back. Dey is talkin' 'bout how dey don't likes ya no moah Lice."

"It weren't Brink dat were powahful, it were 'is dame," Lice growled. "But now dat we took cahah o' da lil' whore, Brink won't try ta come back heah," he spoke and they knew it was the truth. "Aftah all, I didn't say we'se goin' ta do not'in, I jus' said we'se goin' ta wait," he smiled slyly as he moved to the more pressing subject, his odd eyes sparkling with sadistic glee. "I'se got a friend dats goin' ta be helpin' us out boys," Lice made a jerking motion with his head and out of one of the shadows emerged a form. "I'd like ya's ta meet my friend heah. Dis heah gents name is Shadow," he informed them as the boy emerged. 

The two other lad's eyes grew wide as the figure seemed to form out of pure nothing. Shadow was lanky, but not too tall to be overly noticed. His clothes were that of the street, his hat one that resembled the newsies' cap. Nothing too remarkable to note about his appearance besides the way he carried himself. A lazy stance overtook his pose, but the way his eyes shifted and took in everything gave you thing impression that he missed nothing. 

"He's goin' ta be goin' inta Brooklyn an' helpin' us make dis heah Spot a lil' less popular, ain't dat right Shadow?" Lice grinned maliciously, and the Shadow nodded.

"How's he goin' ta do dat?" Drifter asked.

"Simple," Lice shrugged. "Shadow's goin' ta go woyk in Brooklyn. He's goin' ta be a newsie wit' Spot Conlon."

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//There's something inside me,

That pulls beneath the surface,

Consuming…

Confusing…//

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Spot found Emily in the kitchen as usual, doing something with her time. Today she was sewing the button onto one of her father's shirts. Her face was turned away from him, and he noted that the kitchen was even more spotless than normal. It looked like the floor's had been polished until every crack had yielded it's last bit of filth to someone's persistent hands. Removing his hat, Spot moved behind Emily and covered her eyes with his hands. A jump in her body let him know that she hadn't expected anything.

"Guess who?" He joked playfully.

"Spot," she breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought you might be someone else," he noted that she didn't turn to greet him. "You never know these days," she continued, her voice overly cheerful. "So many people out there, you really scared me," she lifted her work again. "Now I'd really like to talk, but I have to work right now Spot, maybe some other time," she continued to ramble in an uncharacteristic manner. When he moved to stand in front of her, she stood and looked at the wall. 

"Oh look," she pointed and Spot stopped. "The window is open, I better go shut that!" She moved hurriedly to the offending window and rested her hands on the raised edge. With all of her strength she tried to bring it down, but it refused. "Stubborn windows," she laughed nervously, still not looking at Spot. "They never shut when you want them too!"

Brow furrowing, Spot walked behind her. The way she was acting was making him suspicious, but he said nothing. Instead, he stretched his arms out around her and placed his hands over hers. Forcing it downward, the window closed without much protest leaving Spot and Emily in a rather compromising situation. Spot's chest pressed against Emily's back and his hands still covered hers as they rested on the windowsill. The warm breath from his mouth tickled the back of her neck and she lowered her head to look at the floor. Neither one of the moved nor spoke, they simply froze. 

"I need to get some work done," Emily muttered finally, but Spot didn't move. "Spot did you hear me? I said I need to get some work done, will you please move?" her tone was quiet and halfhearted as she slipped her hands out from under his. 

"I hoyd ya," Spot cleared his throat. "I jus' don' wanna move," he admitted, trying to make it sound as authoritative as possible. 

"Please," she softly spoke. "I don't want da to get mad again," he heard a catch in her voice and a something twisted in his chest. 

"Is somet'ing da mattah?" Spot whispered into her ear and he felt her shiver. 

"I have to work now Spot," she tried to push one of his arms out of the way, but it wouldn't budge. Ducking, she stepped under it but he reached out and caught her arm, she kept her head lowered as he moved closer. 

Gently, Spot moved out his hand and cupped her chin, raising her face towards his. An ugly bruise crept across the far side of her left cheek. Her eyes were carefully lowered, a masked expression keeping him from knowing what she was thinking. Dark anger began to bubble up inside of the pit of Spot's stomach, he knew who had done this to her. It was her father.

"Did 'e do dis to ya?" Spot's voice came out rougher than he expected. 

"Let me go," she protested weakly.

"No, yous goin' ta tell me who did dis to ya," he demanded.

"You already know," Emily informed him. "Please let me go, there is nothing you can do," Her voice broke at the end. "There isn't anything anyone can do," tears began to well up in her eyes and she tried to pull away.

"Wait," Spot said softly pulling her into his arms, he held her as she cried. Inwardly he cursed himself. He was going soft. Also he was no better than her father was. Demanding answers of her when he already knew the painful truth. This wasn't the first he had ever seen of this and he knew it wouldn't be the last. He himself had been a victim of such abuses, but holding a girl as she cried wasn't in the job description of being the toughest newsie leader around. The last girl he had done this for was Frost, and look where that had gotten him, she was gone. What could he do now? He couldn't just leave Emily to cry by herself, could he? The questions continued as he murmured soft nothings into Emily's ear and rubbed her back. Soon the tears had subsided, and Emily pulled back, ashamed. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wiping I underneath each of her eyes. "I shouldn't have done that," she looked up at him and froze. Spot's arms were still firmly wrapped around her middle and her hands rested in the crook of his elbows. An apprehension formed in Emily's eyes as she realized the closeness between them. Licking his lips, Spot stared down at her, unsure of what to do, but knowing what he wanted. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her until she was breathless and clinging to his desperately, begging for more. 

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I shouldn't do it, Spot reasoned with himself._ It wouldn't be right ta do dat, _his thoughts continued. He knew that she had never been kissed, she had confessed as much to him the other night, to take advantage of her innocence would be wrong. Though, he couldn't deny his attraction to her, would it be wrong to do something that seemed like the most natural thing in the world? _Oh hell_, Spot thought as his tight control began to break.

Slowly, Spot lent over, giving Emily sufficient time to turn away. She didn't however. She tipped her chin up towards him and waited. Moving painfully slow, Spot edged closer to her face, continuing the debate whether this was the right thing to do or not, but reason seemed to be very futile right then. As he tilted his head to one side, his mouth glided closer to hers. She was close enough to taste when a loud crash was heard in the alley and they both jumped. 

Spot left Emily to see what it was, his heart hammering in his ears. Opening the door he saw that a stray cat had knocked over a box. Turning back to talk to Emily, he didn't see her anywhere, but heard the door to the private quarters close and lock. Swearing under his breath, he cursed himself for being so stupid as to ever try something like that, but he couldn't help but want to try again. Why did he want to try again? Why had he even tried at all?

Still muttering under his breath, Spot headed for the stairs. He knew he shouldn't have tried to kiss her, chances were that she didn't trust him at all now. Since he was here, he might as well see if Fire was awake. After all that was the reason he had come, he reminded himself. The stairs up to the bunkroom creaked under each of Spot's heavy steps. 

An invisible weight seemed to have settled on his shoulders. He had been so close and the only thing that his failure had brought forth in him was the more intense desire. More than anything he wanted to pull Emily into his arms again and kiss her until she was trembling and weak in his embrace. Then he would walk away, leaving her to want more. To burn for him like he had burned for her. That would show her, that would put her in her place… but could he do that? 

The question went unanswered as he pushed into the boy's bunkroom, not wanting to think about it anymore. Fire lay on his bunk, his faces mauled almost beyond recognition, he was stripped of his outer-layers, and lay still on the bed. In fact he was so still he almost looked dead. As Spot edged closer, he saw the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest, and knew him to still be alive. If he was still so soundly asleep, Spot could wait to wake him. Now he had others things he could do, but when darkness fell it would be too late. So down the stairs he went and out the front door. Exiting this way seemed strange since he almost always exited the back door or the window route. 

Now out in the oppressive sun, Spot made his way down to the docks, his cane swinging merrily, the gold tip glinting in the sun. Only four other boys were there, all of them factory workers, but they recognized Spot Conlon. Everyone knew who he was. If not by face, by reputation, his golden tipped cane helped identify him wherever he went. Today, Spot would indulge himself in a quick swim. Rarely did he reward himself with this pleasure, but he needed it today.

Stripping down, he plunged into the water. It was cool and refreshing and he felt it cleanse his body of life's grime. The other four all seemed to know each other and were taking turns showing off their various tricks from jumping off the dock. Spot simply swam underwater, letting the feel of the water sliding over his body calm and soothe him. The whole situation with Emily had him out of sorts. The Queens ordeal had him scowling most of the time. He couldn't rest, couldn't eat, and couldn't think properly with all of these things happening around him. Unsatisfied by the water, he climbed out and went to sit on his perch of boxes. The sun quickly dried him and his breeches and he fetched his clothes. Just as he finished slipping into them, a boy he had never seen before approached him.

"Ah yous Spot Conlon?" The new boy asked. He was lean and of medium height, his piercing dark eyes taking in all of his surroundings.

"I'se might be 'im," Spot said guardedly, anyone who didn't know him by his cane was suspect. "Who's askin'?"

"Da name's Shadow," the boy informed Spot. "An' I wanna be a newsie wit'choo."

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//We may rise and fall,

But in the end,

We meet our fate,

Together…//

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Time passed and Spot spent much of it talking with this Shadow boy. The boy claimed to have lived over on Stanton Island until a few weeks ago when he managed to get over here and had been working in a factory. The life inside a building didn't fit him so he heard about the newsies and was interested. Every newsie he had talked to had told him to go find Spot Conlon and finally one girl had directed him to these docks and that is how he came to be here.

"You got five cents?" Spot finally asked and the boy held up a nickel. "Den you can be a newsie," Spot answered. "You can stay at da lodgin' house unless you gots some oder place ya ah stayin'," Spot shrugged. "I was just headin' ta da place if yous wanna come wit' me," he offered.

"T'anks," Shadow smiled, and the boys walked in silence to the lodging house.

Already Spot had assessed the situation. Taking in the whole of the character of the boy. Everything from which his personality to the way he carried himself. One thing was gleaned from his inspection. Whoever this Shadow character, he wasn't someone to be trusted.

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//

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When they got there, Spot was thinking deeply. It was nearing dinnertime and his stomach was rumbling. The last time he had eaten was some old bread a baker was getting rid of for breakfast. Maybe he could go find something, he had enough money. Five dollars were in his pocket, and an assortment of change. The poker game last night had been a profitable one.

"Stay heah," Spot said to the boy and he went back into the kitchen. Emily wasn't in there, and he frowned. Going into the smaller room off of the kitchen, the one that held a small table and a few chairs, he didn't find her there either. "Emily!" Spot called out, careful not to be too loud. A moment of silence then the sounds of footsteps on stairs, a turn of a lock, and the door to the private quarters opened into the kitchen. The dark haired head poked out. "A new boys heah ta get a bunk, ya got a place ta put 'im?" he shifted uncomfortably as she came out and headed to the front, not meeting his eyes.

"Can I help you?" She asked weakly and Shadow's eyes darted between the two. Even without contact, he could sense a strongly protective air on Spot's part over this dark haired girl. A bruise on her cheek made him suspect possible abuse in their relationship, but he didn't know enough to assume that yet. If it was, it could be enough to turn a lot of disfavor upon the Brooklyn leader. For even if the boys and girls were broke and morally corrupt, they all knew that hitting a lady was wrong.

"I'se like a bunk," Shadow answered evenly.

"It's five cents to bunk here," she answered calmly, lowering her eyes to the counter in front of her.

"Heah," Shadow placed the coin he had earlier shown Spot onto the counter. 

"Sign here please," she opened a large book and handed him a lead scrap. With his left hand, he grasp the piece of lead and signed where she had indicated. Scooping the coin up in her hand, Emily beckoned for him to follow and all three of them progressed up the stairs. 

"There are three bunks open in the boy's room," she informed Shadow. "You can have your pick of them," when the entered the room, Spot stayed near the doorway, but watched them both carefully. Emily showed each of the open bunks and Shadow made his selection.

"Whot's da mattah wit' 'im?" Shadow asked, indicating Fire. 

"We don't know," Spot moved away from the door and walked towards Fire's bed. "When he wakes up we'se goin' ta ask 'im." Out of the corner of his eye, Spot saw Emily moving out of the room and he made the same path without bothering to say goodbye to the newest addition to the newsies. 

When he was gone, Shadow chuckled to himself. _This is going to be too easy_, he thought,_ Too easy indeed. _

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//Would you look at her,

She looks at me,

She's got me thinking about her,

Constantly…//

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"Emily," Spot spoke. "Emily wait," he sped up as the girl rapidly descended the stairs. "We'se need ta talk," he informed her as he caught her arm at the bottom of the stairs.

"About what?" she fidgeted nervously. 

"You knows 'bout whot," Spot moved his grip to both of her shoulders. "An' I ain't goin' ta apologize cuz I ain't sorry," he paused to catch her reaction before he went on. "I was goin' ta kiss ya in dere, an' if ya don' stop me, I'se goin' ta kiss ya right now," he informed her, expecting her to protest. The only reaction was the widening of her eyes and her jaw dropped a little, but if she didn't verbally command him to stop, Spot wasn't going to. 

Bending down, Spot held her shoulders firmly in his hands. This time he wasn't as slow or cautious as he approached her upturned mouth. His mouth hovered above hers when they heard the front door handle turn. Both of them stepped back simultaneously as Spot lowered his arms. Flower and Spice tripped into the room. The selling partners both looked like they were near heatstroke as they nodded to their leader before stumbling up the stairs. Spice smiled at him, winking before she headed up the stairs to the bunkrooms.

As they disappeared up the stairs, Spot turned back to find Emily had left again. The girl had the ability to appear and disappear much like a ghost. Hurrying back into the kitchen, he saw her busily trying to prepare for the dinner. Her cheeks were flushed a bright red and her movements were jerky and fast. 

Spot shoved his hands into his pockets and waited. She continued to move quickly, hurrying around the kitchen in frenzy. Taking things off of shelves and putting them back them taking something else off. Her train of thought seemed to have deserted her. After a bit, when she realized that he wasn't going to speak, she broke the silence.

"I have work to do," he noted that she had a quaver in her voice. "So it would be best if you would leave," she added stiffly.

"Lemme help," Spot moved away from his place in the doorway and went over to her as she tried to reach something on a high shelf. 

The efforts the poor girl was making were futile without the assistance of a stool that happened to be on the other side of the room. For Spot however, with his fairly new acquired height, he reached the cooking supplies without much trouble. Handing her the box she had reached for, he noted that she refused to look at him.

"Thank you," she murmured as she tried to brush past him. 

"Wait," he said, blocking her. "Please," he begged uncharacteristically.

That one word held everything else he wanted to say. Spot, the king of Brooklyn, had actually asked for something instead of taking it. Looking up at him, Emily froze. She hadn't realized just how close he was. Gently, Spot cupped her face in his hands and leaned over.

"Emily!" Her father's voice roared from the other room and Emily practically shoved Spot away before they kissed.

"Quick, hide in there," she pointed to the room with the table and chairs as she hurried to busy her hands with the dinner preparations. 

"Emily!" Her father called again as he came into the kitchen just as Spot ducked inside the room.

"Yes da?" She answered politely.

"Get me some water," He ordered. "And make it cold." He looked around the kitchen and eyed his blushing daughter suspiciously. "Is someone else here?" He looked at her coldly.

"Just the newsies da," her soft Irish accent nothing of the overbearing drone of her fathers. "But they're upstairs."

"Are you sure?" He moved to look into the room where Spot was hiding.

"Yes da, I'm sure you have work to do, your water will be up in a moment," she had already fetched the cup and hurried over to her father's side, steering him towards the door of their quarters. Though the man frowned, he went, not having the real grounds for suspicion, and not really caring. Who would his daughter have in there anyway? Once Spot heard the door open and close firmly, he came out and Emily pointed towards the alleyway door. Both of them moved towards it and they both went into the alley. The entrance to the cellar was right by the door and Emily pulled out three keys unlocking each of the locks that kept the ruffians of New York out of their ice. 

"Go home Spot," Emily told him, without looked up from her work. "Da could come down anytime. He would kill you," her words held a serious note that made Spot know she wasn't exaggerating.

"But…" Spot drifted off. What could he say? He couldn't admit what he really felt to her, he couldn't tell her how she was in his dreams, and how he tried to forget about her. What could he say? Could he tell her that he loved her? Did he even know if he loved her? 

"Go Spot," she said softly as she lit the lantern that hung just inside the door and turned to descend the ladder. "Please," she looked up at him and their eyes met. The swirling pools of smoke, sky and earth meeting with the pure pools of emeralds. 

Shoving his hands into his pocket, Spot turned to leave, all the time thinking how completely soft he had gone. If he had done this just a week earlier, he was convinced that he would have kissed her despite her protests. Nothing would have penetrated that hardened heart. No, even less time than that. If they hadn't had that conversation of the roof, he would have kissed her no matter what, but if it weren't for that conversation on roof would he have wanted to kiss her this badly? Practicing his finely tuned ability to curse, Spot rounded the building headed towards the nearest diner. He had money in his pocket and he was going to enjoy a good dinner. Maybe then he could forget about Emily.

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//Riddled answers,

Funny boy,

With your memory,

We do toy…//

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Spot had finished a hardy dinner for a little over a dollar when he made his way back to the Lodging house. It was a relative feast compared to his usual fare and he knew he was luckier than most. He ate better than many of the children on the street, and he was thankful.

The heat was still extreme, but at least a slight breeze was still blowing. Strong gusts would blow once in awhile, but rarely ever, and they were too hot to provide any much relief. Wiping his brow, Spot entered the front way and resisted the urge to go see Emily. Right now he had work to do, and work always came before pleasure not mater how pressing the pleasure seemed to be.

The bunkrooms were now full of people, but they were all sapped of all energy from the heat. No one wanted to play cards, no one wanted to talk, no one wanted to move. Some of the girls were in their bunkroom and a few of the boys speculated that it was for modesty's sake. A few had dared others to play peeping Tom, but none of them had the energy. When Spot arrived up there, he found that most of the boys reclined on their bunks, or the bunk of a friend stripped to the waist and very uncomfortable. Fire still was sleeping. 

Angry and frustrated, Spot stormed over to Fire's bunk. His second, Outsider, leapt to follow his leader to the side of the boy. Spot didn't care if the boy had been almost killed, all he cared about what getting the answers he wanted out of the boy. Grabbing Fire's shoulder, Spot shook him roughly. When the boy didn't respond, he shook him again. Again and again the Spot attempted to wake the boy until finally Fire's non-swollen eye popped open. His good eye darted around the room and he opened his mouth.

"Watah," Fire choked.

"Get him some water," Spot instantly commanded Outsider and his second moved to obey.

Quickly, Outsider had returned with a bowl from the bathroom that the boys used to wash the face, filled with water. Sitting up as much as he could, Fire drank like one parched, soaking up the water like the ground soaked up the rain. He drank in such haste that the water spilled over his chest and bedcovers, but he didn't care. Finally, he had his fill and leaned back down in the bed and closed his eye. A sigh of relief came out of his cracked lips. 

"Wheah you been, Fiah?" Spot asked coldly.

"Queens," The boy muttered, his breathing already becoming more relaxed.

"Whot happened in Queens," Spot shook the boy again, keeping him awake.

"Asked me stuff," he replied, his whole body ached. 

"Whot kinda stuff?" Spot prompted, he needed answers.

"Stuff 'bout yous, youah fightahs, youah spies. I didn't tell 'em not'in," Fire said proudly. "I didn' tell 'em dat I knew yous oah not'in…" he drifted off and Spot shook him again. "Dere were a boy," Fire continued to babble, remembering different things at different times. "A boy wit' two eyes dat were differ'nt colahs," he lifted his hand to his own face and felt his swollen eye and then ran his fingers over his closed eye. "One blue, one black," he shuddered violently. 

"Whot ah you talkin' 'bout?" Spot prodded, he remembered Frost talking about such a boy, but he had never pursued it. 

"A leader wit' differ'nt eyes," Fire was drifting off again and Spot shook him, this time to no avail. The boy's body was too tired to react to the prodding and shaking on the Brooklyn leader.

In the corner, a shadow watched all of this unfold with hidden mirth. This boy Fire, who was weakened considerably, was practically babbling incoherently. The baffled Brooklyn boys stood around not knowing what to make of their friend's ramblings. The mighty leader stood more puzzled than them all. If they only knew what kind of havoc the boy with two different colored eyes was going to bring to them. The shadow came out into the light, and moving unnoticed to his bunk. Yes, this was going to be too easy, too easy indeed. 

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//We all live,

Such elaborate lives,

Never sure,

Whose words are true…//

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No one bothered to try and wake Fire again after that. They knew that they wouldn't get anything good from him. Their friend was far too disoriented and full of pain to think clearly. They had gotten some answers from him, but the answers from his confused remembrances left them with only more questions. After the heat of the day began to subside, some of the boys began to play poker. Spot didn't join with them, his mind was elsewhere. Shadow moved over to place where the leader sat thinking. 

"Yous a'ight?" He asked, actually seeming to care.

"Yeah," Spot brushed him off, not trusting him at all, but Shadow stayed.

"Whot do ya t'ink dis kid means 'bout da two colored eyes?" He asked, already knowing better than the rest of them what he meant. Though this could be an opportunity to open conversation and possibly a way to create a gap between the leader and his boys.

"I dunno," Spot answered despondently. "You evah been ta Queens?" Shadow shook his head, lying deftly. "Oh," Spot didn't make any attempts to further the conversation.

"Is dere anyt'ing I'se can do ta help?" Shadow offered, seemingly to be showing a rookie's kindness.

"No," Spot shot the offer out of the sky. There was silence between the two for awhile and Shadow waited just long enough for the previous conversation to fade from Spot's mind. 

"Who was da goil dat showed us up heah?" Shadow tried a different tactic.

"Da lodging house owner's daughtah," Spot recited almost mindlessly. "'Er name is Emily."

"She's a pretty dame," Shadow dropped casually, testing Spot's reaction. "She got a lovah?" 

"Yes," Spot tensed slightly, almost unnoticeably, but Shadow picked it up.

"Dat were some bruise on 'er face dough, I'se t'inkin' dat somebody's been beatin on 'er," Shadow saw Spot's jaw tense ever so slightly. "Maybe it's da boy she's seein'," he tested.

"Maybe," Spot answered coolly. Shadow had to hand it to him, Spot Conlon was a hard one to read, but if anyone could do it, it was he.

"Do ya t'ink it was?" He played the curious child, trying to withdraw a more definite answer.

"Don' you haves somet'ing ta do?" Spot asked calmly, obviously showing more mercy to the new guy than the others. "Go play pokah oah somet'ing," he offered, making it clear that Shadow wasn't supposed to be over here at this time. Sensing that his welcome was over, Shadow slipped away and mingled with various boys, satisfied enough with what he had learned by his brief visit. It was all a matter of time before he forged an angle to which destroy Brooklyn. 

__

Spot Conlon 'as a weakness, Shadow smiled inwardly as he watched a poker game. _An' dat dame is it._

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"So yous t'ink dat 'e can pull it off?" Drifter asked skeptically. 

"I knows he can," Lice answered confidently. 

"But no one gets close ta Spot," Bruiser sided with Drifter.

"No one 'as ta get close ta 'im, Shadow's just gotta finda way ta make 'is boys not like 'im so much," Lice explained.

"I still don' see 'ow makin' 'im less populah is goin' ta make it any bettah foah us," Grumbled Bruiser.

"Look, I'll talk real slow an use small woyds so yous will undahstand," Lice took great care in pronouncing each syllable with care. "If - Spot - Conlon - ain't - as - populah - when - we'se - attack - 'is - boys - ain't - goin' - ta - fight - as - 'ard - foah - 'im," He gave a dramatic pause before he continued. "Part of bein' a leadah is makin' it so dat peoples wanna follow ya, an if da people don' wanna follow Spot no moah, it'll be easiah foah us ta take whot we want."

"But whot about da sellin' ground dat we'se goin' ta take," Drifter started. "Da boys we take it from ain't goin' ta be too happy, de's goin' ta wanna fight," He pointed out and Bruiser nodded.

"Well den, we'se just goin' ta havta make shuah dat doe's boys ain't goin' ta be able ta fight," A evil grin lit up Lice's face and comprehension began to dawn on his two companions.

"Does dat mean we gets ta fight some moah?" Bruiser grinned.

"Yea," Lice smiled, but then turned serious. "But not now," Bruiser's grin disappeared. "We ain't goin' ta do not'in foah now. We'se goin' ta make nice wit' 'em foah now. We don' want ta cause Shadow no problems, a'ight?" Lice's unusual eyes looked back and forth between the two. "Good, now go and spread da woyd. We ain't fightin' any of da Brooklyn newsies on da outskirts," He smiled as he watched his partners go off to inform the others in the warehouse where the Queens newsies called home.

"No we ain't goin' ta be fightin' no more of doe's bastards," he spoke to himself. "We ain't going to stoop down ta dere level no more," he lit a cigarette and watched the rings of smoke he blew before finishing his thought. "We'se killin' dem in da core." 

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//Discomfort,

Endlessly has pulled itself,

Upon me,

Distracting, reacting…//

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Manhattan was just as hot as Brooklyn and the boys all upstairs, stripped to the bare minimal, none of them making any moves at conversation. Some of them would get up every once in awhile to get a drink of lukewarm water before going back and lying down on their bed. The sweltering heat promised to only grow worse as the terrible sun blazed overhead. The gates of hell had opened and were pouring its unearthly heat over New York. 

Jack was personally thinking about Spot and the odd conversation they had a few days ago. The Brooklyn leader had paid more visits lately than he had in months. No word from Queens had come to Manhattan, but that didn't mean that things weren't happening. Brooklyn and Queens had never been on good terms, but to stoop as low as kidnapping another newsie from the opposing side was unheard of. The Harlem leader hadn't had any contact with the group in Queens either. 

But this didn't puzzle Jack nearly as much as the unusual relationship that he seemed to hold with the lodging house owner's daughter. He already knew that Spot still wasn't completely over Frost, come to think of it, he wasn't either. Something about that girl was like an infection, creeping into your veins and coursing through your body, but Spot was definitely holding a flame for this girl. Spot was never 'just nice to a girl'. There was always something in it for him, always something fueling it. It was hard to figure, as well as Jack knew Spot Conlon, he really knew nothing at all.

Standing from his bed, he went to look out the window at the darkened city. Finding a cigarette, Jack lit the fag and took a deep inhale. Somewhere out there, Spot was taking on the problems of the world, always trying to break the limits that were set to mere mortals. Defying death and the risks that it insured, Jack shook his head. Frost had done that to all of them. She made them all live a little harder, run a little faster, or jump a little higher. Smashing the but under his bare heel, Cowboy turned and went back to his bed. The soft breathing of his other comrades slowly lulled him to sleep. 

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//Living might mean taking chances,

But their worth taking,

Loving might be a mistake,

But it's worth making…//

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The hour had grown late and Spot soon was sneaking out the window as had become his custom. Even when the lodging house owner wasn't sitting at the door asleep, this posed less of a risk of getting caught. Tonight he was actually looking forward to sitting on the roof and thinking. Something about the place was very calming and he could collect his thoughts. His thoughts wouldn't be alone because as he rounded the corner he saw that Emily was on the roof this night as well.

A strange warm feeling settled deep in the pit of turmoil within him, a peace that he only felt when he was with her. She was standing in her nightgown again, staring at the sky, her back to him. A deep longing to hold her, and to have her hold him quickly overtook the peace. Jumping onto the roof, the sudden sound made her turn. Seeing that it was he, she wrapped her arms around her torso and took a step back.

"I thought you were gone," she whispered. 

"Would ya 'ave comes out heah if ya knows dat I was still dere?" Spot took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.

The heat in the air hung around them light a thick blanket. The soft breeze making that blanket wave around them, strangling them, choking out their ability to talk or speak. They kept their distance, neither one of them moving as the ball stayed on Emily's side of the court. She held the control over what would happen next, and she weighed her options carefully before she spoke.

"Yes," she whispered finally, the tension between them was thick.

Slowly, Spot walked closer to her, watching her face and her body language. He expected her to become tense or try to avoid him, but she simply waited. Already, she knew that this was where her decision would bring her. Stopping as he stood close, he looked down at her. Expectantly, she tilted her chin skyward and Spot dropped his cap to their feet. Almost with reverence, he leaned over and brushed his mouth to hers, not daring to touch any other part of her.

His mouth had barely touched hers, but a shock ran through his body, shaking his core. Drawing back, he looked deeply into her eyes. The wonders of the entire world were contained in those eyes as the stars reflected their dewy splendor. Finding no resistance, Spot dropped his head again and pressed his mouth to hers. 

The wind blew gently at the contact, and the stars seemed to shine just a little bit brighter and he edged closer and wrapped his arms around her waist. The dark and light locking in the eternal embrace that so many lovers long gone had invented. Her purity balancing his sin in the embrace of the ages as they clung to each other in the dark of the night. Entire kingdoms rose and fell before Spot slowly lifted his head. The impossibility of the situation struck both of them as they looked into each other's eyes. 

Diamonds of the purest form welled up in angel's eyes as she rested her head against the demon's chest. Unsure of what to do, the demon held the angel as she wept. For what can console an angel who loved a demon? And what can comfort a demon that brushed heaven on the wings of an angel?

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A/N: All right, there! I hope you're happy. For some reason I had a really hard time making this chapter longer. For me this is one of my medium length chapters, but I just couldn't keep writing on it. -Growl- My stupid one-part angst pieces are making my length writing skills goes down the tubes! AAAAHG! These are the same shout out as they were in the pre-edited chapter. I simply replaced the old chapter explaining my absence with this one. ^_^ Aren't I just so smart? Well there all of you reviewers go. Thank you again for your faithful reading and nice reviews. ^_^

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Ireland: Thank you for your compliments. I try to focus on characters that already exist because a lot of times it is easier for the reader. ^_^ You know me, always trying to please the reader....  
**Derby**: Thanks for the review, I like it when people tell me my plots are unique. I really try to aim for that.  
**Fearless**: Glad you like it. ^_^ I promise to email on my latest addition.  
**Kaylee**: Thank you for your reviews, I'm glad that you sister takes a fancy to my writing as well. ^_^ It really does mean a lot to me to know that people are actually reading it and liking it.  
**Falco Conlon**: I first apologize for my grave errors, but my mean little mister computer head was being stupid. GROWL. Thanks for the review ^_^  
**Annie**: Thank you for you're oh so enthusiastic review! It made me laugh and smile. I really needed that because I have been writing angst and that always makes me want to cry. Thanks for the flowers too. ^_^ I personally really liked writing the poker scene because it was the closest I have ever gotten to fluff... ever.  
**Angel**: Cute?!?! You think my story is cute?!?!?! well I have to admit... umm... I don't think that anyone has ever called my story cute before. It's probably because they are normally about death and things. I try and have Spot stay true to his character, while he is a very passionate person, he tends to hold it all in there and be in control over everything. That includes whom he is attracted to. But as we all know, you can't chose the person you fancy, most of the time. ^_^  
**Pep Gep**: Thanks for the candy co - I mean colored raisins. That made me laugh really hard. Haha, I guess I am kind of trying to keep you all interested in this so I get to add into it all of the scary, shadowy people and everything. I know I am going to have to keep you waiting for a few days, but I really don't have a choice. I am going to miss this place. .:* tear *:. But I promise some major updates when I come back.


	5. Damn

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, no infringement is intended, so don't sue me.

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A/N_: First off, this chapter references several things that will make a ton more sense if you read the few chapters I have posted of the story **Frostbitten**._ (previously titled **The Taste of Hell**) Apologies major for the delay of this chapter. Been stressed in the big league way because of finals, but I am back ^_^ Not that any one care. No one even bothered to review my last chapter. - tear - I think I am going to cry. I have no fans. Boo hoo! - bawls - Just for that, this is going to be a sad chapter! Bah humbug!

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Warning: This chapter is PG-13 for all of the normal stuff in my fictions, such as: angst, language, death, pain, stuff like that, and one really freaky sequence that I had a lot of fun writing. ^_^

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Chapter 5: Damn

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"_Comes the blind fury,_"  
-- John Milton

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They had fallen asleep together on the roof, Emily and Spot. Sitting together under the stars, Emily's head resting on Spot's chest, his arms wrapped around her. The heat around them had kept them warm, but when they woke that morning, the normally bright blue sky was replaced by dark gray skies. Thanks to Spot's early morning routine, they woke early enough for Emily to sneak back into the Lodging house undetected, but she didn't meet his eyes the whole time. He suspected she was embarrassed and didn't press the situation. In fact, he was slightly embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

What in the devil had he been thinking? Romancing the daughter of the lodging house owner, no not only romancing her, falling asleep with her under the stars after talking to all hours of the night. What in the world had he been thinking? If anyone found out about this, they would laugh him out of Brooklyn. This was Spot Conlon, he wasn't supposed to have a steady girl. Love them and leave them, except he never really got around to the first part. His traditional motive was much more along the lines of use them and leave them. Until Frost, and now there was Emily, what in the hell was happening to him?

After Emily was back in the lodging house, he shimmied down from his place. He headed towards the gates, not even bothering to stop at the livery or any of his usual points of interest. His mind was spinning, not able to rest on one certain thought for more than a few instants. Had he really kissed Emily? All of the events of yesterday seemed surreal. Why had he done it? Was he really that stupid? He might as well have signed his own death sentence. 

__

Damn, was the only word he could conjugate in his racing mind, _Damn!_

No one was at the gate, why should there be? He was taken back to the times that Frost had been there waiting for him. He had loved Frost, he still did, and he felt for the cross necklace that he still kept as a sign of his love for her. How could he still be in love with Frost and feel so intensely what he did for Emily? But what he felt for Emily wasn't the same… was it? 

Closing his eyes again, he tried once more to picture Frost's face in his mind. The sparkling dark eyes kept fading into the green though, and the odd shaped nose turning up into a freckle covered form. The chestnut hair turned dark in an instant and the thin lips filled out slightly. Over and over he would try and formulate Frost's vision in his mind, but again and again Emily would appear.

__

Damn, he thought again, completely and thoroughly frustrated. _Damn._

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//Cause your working,

Building a mystery,

Holding on,

Holding it in…//

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Shadow moved with his same lazy grace as he approached the leader. His posture speaking of his non-caring laid back attitude, his eyes, sharp and keen, spoke an entirely different message. The once short Brooklyn leader stood with his cap pulled low over his eyes, his arms crossed, cane in place, and slingshot at his side. Overall conveying the message that he didn't want to be approached.

"Ya sleep a'ight?" Shadow asked, acting oblivious to the apparent body language.

"Yeah," Spot answered in truth. The fact was that he hadn't slept better in months. Though now he was sore, and not that well rested, he hadn't had a single nightmare or dream at all. Just long, peaceful sleep that had felt wonderful to his mind and soul. Shadow didn't tell his leader that his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes told otherwise. 

"Why don'cha sleep at da Lodgin' House wit' da rest o' us?" Shadow was honestly curious. When the leader had sneaked out the window in the dark of the night, it had raised many questions in his mind.

"Dere's stuff dere dat I don' wanna be 'round," he said simply, closing the subject before it had even been opened. 

"Whot kinda stuff?" Shadow prodded, trying to find something, anything that would help him on his cause. 

"Da kinda stuff dat is best ta be forgotten," Spot looked at the annoyance to his side. "An' left _alone_," The ice in his tone made it clear, that for health reasons, Shadow should drop it. 

"How many papes do ya sell?" Shadow asked, trying to keep the conversation alive, being a spy sent to find out information about Spot Conlon was proving to be more of a challenge than he thought it would be.

"Staht at one-fifty," he said, voice void of emotions. 

"How fast do ya sell out?" Shadow prodded and Spot kept his annoyance masked.

"Depends," he responded cryptically, inwardly rejoicing at the spotting of the rest of the group.

"On whot?" Shadow refused to be ignored.

"On how fast dey sell," Spot offered, scanning the group of newsies as they got closer still.

"Oh," That quickly ended the snap-fire conversation that had whipped back and forth quicker than a tennis ball, wracking his brain, Shadow tired to think of anything he could say. An arrival of a group of rowdy kids took his attention away from these thoughts.

The pack was quickly identified as the newsies from the lodging house. All of them greeted Spot and one that he had known to be Outsider took place on the right hand side of Spot. Obviously a place reserved for a co-leader or second in command. Something told him that this Outsider was really more of a tool than anything. He didn't possess even half of the charisma or know-how that Spot did.

"Ya feelin' a'ight Spot?" The co-leader spoke, in a rather hushed tone, not wanting to draw attention to the unorthodox question. It was clear however that Spot wasn't on the top of his physical game.

"I'se fine," he seemed slightly annoyed at the question and Shadow took note of it, carefully listening to the two converse while seeming to be listening to something else.

"Hey Spot," a girl in the front with bright red hair heckled the leader. "Ya look like yous been up all night," Her large gray eyes shone with amusement. "Maybe wit' somebody I knows?" She raised an eyebrow and Spot gave her a glare. 

Only Spot understood the underlined truth in that joke. The girl, Spitfire, had been a barmaid where several prostitutes had worked before she became a newsie. Her growth had come early to her, making her look much older than eleven, and was able to lie about her age to work there as a waitress of sorts. Spot had done a background check and found that she had never sold her own body, but was familiar with several girls that had on regular basis. Shadow noted this exchange curiously, but looked at the pretty girl that spoke with a different kind of interest.

Other friendly jibes came Spot's way, none of them serious, or too demeaning. No one dared take that risk, and Spot was soon spared of all of this because the gates opened. Shadow noted that he took all of this in stride, seeming to record what everyone said, storing it away in some databank that he had constructed for each newsie. Knowing the reputation of this boy, he probably had just that, a databank. In which some sort of blackmail or bad gossip was held against each and every one of them. A clever fox he was indeed, but not too clever. This Spot had better watch himself, because he was about to be beaten at his own game. 

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"So whot yous is sayin' is dat dis spy o' youahs, is goin' ta woyk wit' Spot Conlon, win 'is trust, an' make 'im so 'e ain't got no friends?" Rift asked, the majority of the Queens' newsies were assembled after the day's selling.

"Dat's 'bout it," Lice leaned back in the one, old, broken down chair they had. "Den 'e's goin' ta come back ah whot it is, heah an' tell us all 'bout da group," he explained. "Den when dey least expect it, _we strike_."

A murmur of approval ran through the violent group at the sound of their leader's impassioned words. They might not be getting what they wanted right now, but as long as they had the promise of bloodshed, their willingness to follow their leader's orders was increased. As long as they didn't have to wait too long, Lice knew that he could keep them subdued, but if Shadow failed to do his job…. He had killed before and he would do it again, nothing would stand in his way from being the leader. Nothing would stand in his way to beat Spot Conlon.

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//Your different now,

Do you know that?

You've change somehow,

Can you see that…?//

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"Whot's da mattah Cowboy?" Racetrack sat next to his brooding companion. It was unlike his friend to sit with a scowl on his face for too long.

"I'se just t'inkin' Race," Jack replied, not feeling like being cheered.

"Yous t'inkin'?" Racetrack looked shocked. "Ah youah shuah you's feelin' a'ight Jack?" Race good-naturedly joked, managing to crack only a small temporary smile out of his friend. "Yous t'inkin' 'bout Cowgoil again?" He ventured cautiously, the leader's old flame still dangerous territory.

"No," Jack shook his head, his mousy brown hair falling into his eyes. "I were t'inkin' 'bout Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn?" Race recognized Jack's name for Spot. "Why yous t'inkin' 'bout 'im?"

"Cause," Jack thought out loud. "Dat boy's been actin' strange," Jack pondered, his thoughts becoming speech.

"An' Spot was evah noymal?" Race tried to lighten the mood a little, only to fail miserably. 

"Nah, it's moah dan dat," Jack searched for the words. "It's jus' dat 'e's gettin' inta somet'ing dat he don't know 'bout," Jack didn't really know what he was saying but it made sense. "He's fallin' foah a goil dat ain't sposed ta be falled for, an' Queens is doin' somet'ing an' I'se not shuah whot it is," Jack grappled for the right words. "Spot's in trouble," he spat out finally, looking directly into his friend's eyes. "An' he don' know it."

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//You make believe,

That nothing is wrong,

Until your crying,

Crying on me…//

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Jack didn't know how wrong he was, Spot knew he was in trouble, deep trouble, he just wouldn't show it. Losing his heart to a girl who didn't know the first thing about love was bad enough, but with Queens on the offensive, and then suddenly dropping out of the picture, it had Spot worried. It doesn't take too much to figure that Queens was waiting for something, but Spot didn't know what and it was making him antsy.

A few beat-up boys were not enough for a full out war, but diplomacy was definitely out of the question. It was clear that no one from Brooklyn was welcome in Queens, or even in the general area of it. Everything was so confused at the same time as being so plainly clear, it was frustrating. What was Spot supposed to do? All of the territory battles he had fought had been quick little scuffles between a few leaders, never an actual war. What exactly was Queens doing anyway? Did they even want a war, did they even know what they were doing?

The new situations had Spot completely confused, but he wouldn't show it, such were the pains of leadership. The other pain was the risk he took any time he decided to care about anyone. While everyone has to deal with that risk, the effect that it took on them perhaps wasn't as great as Spot's. Everyone he had genuinely cared for was gone forever, and he couldn't believe that he was being stupid enough to fall for love again. Hadn't he learned his lesson with Frost?

__

Damn, He kept thinking. _Damn ya Spot Conlon,_ Frost's own words came back to haunt him. _Damn me,_ he thought. _Damn me ta bloody hell,_ he lit a cigarette and started on a walk, unsure where this walk would take them.

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//Am I crazy?

Am I dreaming?

Blind to the pain,

And to your scheming…//

****

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"Yous all knows dat Spot's just controlin' all o' yous," Shadow spoke to some grumbling young boys. "Do ya really t'ink dat 'e could soak alla yous?" It had been a long hard selling day and rumors had been floating around about Queens. "Ya t'ink dat 'e's really goin' ta take cahah o' yous if Queens comes?" Shadow continued to entice them. Some listened interested, some listened because they didn't feel like moving others tried not to care, but the words pricked at their conscious.

This was the lesser of the newsboys and girls, the ones that weren't in Spot's inner-circle. The down and outs of the group, the new ones, the ones that had never really taken their stand in the bunkroom society, these were the ones that Shadow was appealing to. He knew that the destruction all began with a seed, and these were the most fertile soil he could find. 

"Spot Conlon's not'in moah dan a cowahd," he stayed quiet, though his impassioned words carried a deeper meaning than any screamed tiding. 

"You's wrong!" One of the smaller boys exclaimed. He had grown up on the stories of Spot and his great reputation, the boy was a walking legend, and he wouldn't have this stranger attacking his hero. "Spot Conlon's a newsie," he said firmly through his several missing teeth. "An' he's a darn good one too!" A slight wave of voices fluttered through the crowd and the glares at Shadow told him that the whispered words were not in his favor.

Knowing when it was best to be quiet, he was, and leaned back, closing his mouth. Soon the conversations went back to normal, only a few would look back at him with a strange look, or a whispered question to one of their friends, but Shadow had done his job. The seed was planted, and he knew that it was taking root.

****

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__

//It's all so familiar,

It's like,

It's like a memory,

From a dream…//

****

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The walk took him to places that he hadn't known existed. Streets that had long been forgotten, places and memories far gone and faded haunted the shadowy, narrow, passageways. Strangely recognizable landmarks and byways of the deserted area overwhelmed Spot. Standing in a single Spot he, circled slowly, taking it all in. What was this place?

"Are you lost boy?" A motherly voice came from behind him.

"Whot?" Spot whirled around to find a young woman, he guessed around twenty years of age, standing behind him. Her auburn hair was pulled loosely into a bun. The shawl of torn lace hung droopily around her work sagged shoulders. A strange light shone in her eyes, those strange eyes that seemed to reflect the whole world.

"Are you lost?" Her accent was missing, there was no distinct tone or phrasing that marked her in any category or breeding. 

"Lost, me? No," Spot processed his thoughts and threw the long dead butt of his cigarette on the dirt streets, habitually grinding it with the heel of his boot.

"For whom do you search?" She questioned, openly.

"I ain't lookin' foah nobody," Spot puzzled at the woman's questions. Nobody had ever done this to him, and it had been years since anyone had called him a boy.

"Then what brings you here?" She posed the question. "Something must have drawn you," she prompted and Spot recoiled.

"Who is you?" Spot went defensive, not liking being the receiving end of all the questions.

"I'm just a person like you Spot Conlon," She smiled sweetly and Spot took a step back, how did this lady know his name? It was probable that she knew him from reputation, and his cane marked him, but she seemed too old and didn't seem like she would have been in the right circle to be familiar with him. 

"Shit," he breathed, mind racing. "Yous one o' does crazies I'se hoyd 'bout," he pointed his finger at her. "Yous one o' does peoples dat follow oder people 'round an' find out stuff 'bout them," he backed away a little more, and the woman made no attempt to follow him.

"No, you know I'm not," she shook her head slightly, there was something very familiar about her, and for some odd reason, Spot believed every word she said. 

"Den who ah yous?" he frowned, confused at his own behavior and at the happenings around him.

"That doesn't matter right now, what matters is that you are safe," she didn't smile now and Spot was utterly confused. What was this woman talking about?

"O' course I'se safe," he scoffed, smirking. "I ain't got no reason not ta be!" he bragged.

"Oh silly boy and your games," she scolded mildly. "You know not what trouble awaits you if you heed not my warnings," she looked directly into his eyes on those words and a chill shot down his spine.

"Whot da hell ah ya talkin' 'bout lady?" Spot's natural reaction to fear was anger. 

"I'm talking about the danger that you are in Patrick," She used his birth name and he froze for a moment.

"Horse shit," he breathed. No one knew that was his name, not even Frost and she was long gone.

"Yes, I know a lot about you Patrick O'Connor," she smiled and Spot took another step back, blue curses coming nonsensically from his lips. "You recognize this place? You should, this is your old home," she pointed to the brick building, standing across from them.

"Dat's impossible," Spot denied, looking up and down the exterior, looking for evidence of fire. "It boyned down da day I ran," he felt bold by this and took a few steps closer to her, wagging his finger. "I'se not shuah whot games yous playin' heah lady, but I'se tellin' yous now dat I'se not fallin' foah it," he looked back at the building and then at the lady who wasn't smiling anymore. "Dis place boyned yeahs ago, it wos toyn down aftah dat!" He pointed out the flaw in her argument.

"Yes it did burn didn't it Patrick?" She spoke again, almost patronizingly. "But the fire wasn't set by someone leaving the lamp on and going to bed was it?" She saw the pain flicker in his eyes. "Yes, you remember, it was you that set the fire that night," she smiled again, sadly this time. "Wasn't it?" the smile became a knowing smile, telling him that she didn't even need the answer.

"I don' knows whot yous talkin' 'bout lady," Spot said coldly, his body tensing.

"Oh but you do," she stepped forward, making the first move that she had made since Spot had first seen her. Instinctively he wanted to back away, but her eyes locked with his, holding him where he was. "You knocked the lantern when you were trying to not step in your mother's blood, your father had killed her and your brother and sister, do you remember?" her pale, slim hand stretched up and touched his cheek. It was shockingly warm.

"Who ah you?" Spot breathed. There was no way that she could know what she knew. Her strange, strange eyes flickered as they stared into his.

"You remember, you remember how he beat you, do you remember how you ached for weeks after that beating?" She didn't wait for an answer. "That pain is minimal if you don't heed my warnings," She was deadly serious and she drew back her hand. Instantly Spot felt cold all over, the loss of contact connected with a sudden sense of panic.

"Whot warnin'?" He thought, he remembered what good warnings did, warnings had killed his Frost. The woman's eyes almost seemed to film over, as if a second eyelid had flashed over them, closing sideways instead of vertically, then was gone in an instant. 

"You miss this girl," She reached out and touched the gold cross. "Such a pretty necklace, such an unresolved character, such an indomitable spirit," she spoke more to herself than Spot, ignoring his question entirely, but reading his mind. "You loved her very much didn't you?" Spot now knew that answering her questions were useless, she already knew the answer, he didn't know how, but he just accepted the fact that she was going to know them. "She loved you too," the words brought exceeding joy to Spot. "She loved you more than she will ever know," she looked up at him sadly. "But you don't remember her face do you?" she kept asking questions that she never let him answer, this one she let hand in the air.

"I nevah said dat," Spot swallowed hard.

"Oh but you didn't have to," she shook her head. "The mind does that sometimes, it makes room for new memories, so it gets rid of old ones," her voice was smooth and calm as she studied the cross again before looking up at him. "Just because you cannot remember doesn't mean you loved her any less than before," with those wise words, she dropped the cross to his chest again and stepped back. "But my time grows short as does yours," her tone deadly serious as she looked down the street and Spot followed her gaze. A large dark cloud was forming on the horizon. 

"What warnin'?" Spot repeated, anxious now. Again the second eyelid closed over her eyes, coating it as she looked towards him blankly. Goosebumps rose over his whole body and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight at the sight, then she began to speak.

"Be careful Patrick O'Connor, take the help of friends, but chose them wisely. For even the most devoted comrade can become your enemy whenever he chooses," she directed. "Your weakness lies in her strength and her strength in yours, do not shun her or turn away from her, her light will be the beacon that guides you," her prophetic speech continued. "Don't be afraid to look behind you, always look behind you Patrick. Your pride is your weakness as her humble attitude is hers. If you continue to cling to your ways, you will both be destroyed," the woman began to fade into the thin air, and Spot blinked to see if it was really happening. "You're a marked man Patrick, take care that you leave nothing unchecked, nothing unturned, you are the holder of your fate," she spoke as she evaporated. "Be not afraid to look behind you, your pride is your weakness," she repeated. "Together you will conquer, you and her, apart you shall fall."

"Wait," Spot called to the woman as she disappeared. "Her who?" His cry was desperate but she continued and his eyes darted to where the darkness had been forming, it was there again, but thicker and darker still.

"Together you succeed, apart you shall fail, heed my warning's friend Patrick," She spoke her last words as she completely faded. "Heed my warnings…." And she was gone. The manifestation was gone as if she had never been. The evanescence of her departure was disturbing, but Spot's eyes moved to the darkness, it was moving towards him, and quickly. 

Unable to pause and puzzle over this woman or her warnings, he ran. He ran like he had never run before, barely touching the ground as he soared as a gazelle over the dirt streets and alleyways. Still the all-consuming black cloud pursued him like a great wall of smoke enveloping the entire city as far as the eye could see. Gasping, he turned and saw it moving closer and closer, and he sped up as much as he could. 

__

Your weakness lies in her strength, the voice echoed in his head. _'Er who?_ He puzzled, running up a flight of stairs and coming to the rooftops of what he thought to be New York. Sprinting at full speed, he jumped from one building to the next. Their distance no more than a wide creek. The gold tipped cane he carried tucked in his belt loop, pounding against his leg as he ran. Still the darkness followed him, his every move. Then he came to a building whose jump was impossible, no fire escape and it were too late to head back. Unsure of what else to do, Spot jumped, flying off the edge he closed his eyes expected to hit the hard ground.

Imagine his surprise to find that he instead landed in something wet, very wet and soon he was soaked. Opening his eyes, he saw he was underwater. How had he gotten there? These buildings weren't near the wharf, were they? Opening his eyes, he saw a light near the surface and underneath him the darkness was swirling upwards, trying to reach him. He had to make it to the light. Upward he swam, pulling himself nearer and nearer to the surface. 

His breath soon was giving out and his vision was blurring from the water. How deep was he? How far did he have to go? The light was partially blocked now, by a figure, which was it? He strained to see whom the girlish shadow belonged to, but he couldn't make it out. At the sight of it though, a new burst of energy was sent through his body and he made it to the surface to find only that the darkness was still chasing him and he was in the middle of a lake. Gasping for air, he swam to the shore, his clothes were soaked, his shoes were soggy, and the darkness was still chasing him. 

"This way Patrick!" he heard a voice with an Irish accent call and he saw what seemed to be his mother beckoning him in a forest. 

"No! Dis way!" Frost called from another clump of trees, her face blurred to his vision, but she two was motioning for him to follow.

"Spot!" A faint voice touched his ears and he knew it to be Emily.

__

Your weakness lies in her strength, the voice echoed. _Together you will conquer, apart you shall fall,_ and another phrase reverberated as he struggled to pick the correct lead. His time was running out, the darkness would soon be upon them. _Her light will be the beacon that guides you,_ phrase after phrase assaulted him. The cross on his chest began to burn, then the key, each a sign of two of the people. Did this mean that Emily was his choice or that she couldn't be.

Going with his gut instinct he turned to the raven-haired girl and the other two disappeared as they had come, into nothing. _Dis 'as bettah be da right one_; Spot didn't wait to find out because he ran, and she ran with him. Thorns tore into his flesh and branches pulled on his hair, Emily appeared unscathed. Branches scratched him and twigs were stuck in his hair, yanking at his cap. The cane that represented so much to him was more of a hindrance than help. Still the darkness pursued. 

Falling, he was falling again. The forest had ended in a sharp cliff and both he and Emily had fallen off, falling to the ground, but it was soft. A green meadow, he was not in New York anymore that was for sure. Emily was at his side still, running already, they were on their feet, had they landed that way? His clothes were still wet and he knew that his blood soaked his clothes as well as the water from the lake. Suddenly, Emily vanished. The darkness gained rapidly then, it had been held at bay when she was there, but now it was unleashed in its full fury.

__

Damn, The thought ran though his head again for the hundredth time that day. Never looking back, he kept running and before he knew it, he couldn't see where he was going. It was black every where, no light, nothing anywhere, it was just an oppressive burning blackness that couldn't be satisfied or doused. Groping around in it, the key and the cross began to burn again. Tearing at them, he let out a scream only to have it swallowed in the night. 

"You didn't look behind yourself, did you?" It was that woman's voice again, he could hear her, but she could see her. He didn't need to see her to know that her question was rhetorical. 

"Wheah am I?" Spot tried to move in the direction of the voice, but couldn't.

"Don't forget my warnings," she advised, and Spot knew that she was fading away again. A terribly desperate feeling over took him he couldn't be alone in this blackness! 

"Wait!" he called. "Don't leave me!" There was no answer, but he began thrashing in the darkness, trying to break its hold, but he couldn't. The engulfment was complete and final. The total isolation was terrifying, more terrifying than any experience he had ever had before. The aloneness was so complete that he felt that he was separated from everyone and everything, completely and thoroughly alone. 

The burning metal on his chest caused him to cry out. It was searing into his flesh and he didn't know how to remove them. Then the tears came, there was no one there to help him, no one there that cared, no way to relieve him of the pain that was on so many levels it was indescribable. Letting out a terrible final scream, Spot curled into a tiny ball and wept.

"Hey mistah, you a'ight?" Spot opened his eyes and he was back in New York, he could see, there was no darkness, no strange woman, no pain…. 

"Whot?" he asked. 

"Yous weah screamin' an' I'se just checkin' if yous a'ight?" the boy was no more than five, all of his baby teeth still in tact. 

"Yea, yea I'se fine," Spot felt for his money in his pocket and surprisingly it was still there. His cap was there, as was his cane, and his slingshot. His cigarette was no where to be seen, but he had smashed it under his boot when he was talking to that lady, hadn't he?

A dream, that is what it had to be, he reasoned mentally with himself as he watched the small boy retreat. There was no possible way that any of that had happened to him, it was just another one of his dreams. He had sat down on the bench to rest and think and had fallen asleep as he had thought. Yes, that was it, but no - wait - he didn't remember sitting down and as he looked around he wasn't quite sure where he was. It took him several minutes to realize that he was in Manhattan. No matter what he had thought before, he _knew_ that there was no way he had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and no one could convince him otherwise. 

"Spot Conlon?" He knew that voice before he even saw the person.

"Yeah Race? Whaddya want?" He was impatient, but still the cool intimidating leader.

"If you's don't mind my askin', who ah ya doin' heah?" His voice was one of reverence and respect, maybe a hint of fear.

__

At least some t'ing will nevah change, Spot thought mirthlessly.

"I'se can be wheah evah I'se wanna be when evah I'se wanna be dere," Spot took the defensive, rising to the occasion. While he had gotten a growth spurt, Race hadn't, and he towered over the boy.

"Yous be needin' a place ta stay tanight?" Race asked weakly, his cigar hanging forgotten in his hand. "It's gettin' late an' we'se got an extrie bunk oah two," he offered and Spot started walking towards the Manhattan Lodging House.

__

It nevah happened, he reasoned. _Dere is no way dat it happened,_ he scratched the back of his capped head. Something was in his hair. Reaching back, he pulled out the offending item. It was a twig with leafs still attached. How could he have a twig with the leafs still… Swiveling his head, he looked around behind him. Racetrack was there, but he wasn't interested in that, searching the crowd he saw the woman standing there. Her auburn hair catching the dying rays of the sun, she smiled as a carriage passed in front of her, and when the carriage had moved out of the way, she was gone. 

****

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Emily was scrubbing the entry hall when something odd happened to her. Several of the boys from upstairs came down and started talking to her. Each of them asking in turns about Spot, one of them in particular. He was a tall boy with shaggy blonde hair and gray eyes set deeply in his head, she had seen him with Spot before and guessed him to be another leader.

"Has yous seen Spot 'round?" The gray-eyed boy asked, his eyes automatically went to the disfiguring bruise on the side of her face. Emily ducked her head.

"No," she shook her head. "Not since this morning."

"Do ya knows wheah 'e is?" The gray-eyed boy said, she could hear the hint of disgust in his voice. He thought her to be ugly, her thought the bruise to show weakness, and she knew that weakness wasn't permitted. 

"She ain't goin' ta know, Outsidah," A short dark boy spoke.

"Shaddup an' let 'er tell me," Outsider growled.

"He's right, I don't have any idea," Emily carefully turned her head so the side with the bruise was away from them as she continued scrubbing.

A string of curse words flowed from the short dark boy and Outsider elbowed him sharply. "Don' coyse in front o' a lady," he reprimanded.

"Sorry miss," the short dark boy muttered. 

"So yous got no idea wheah 'e is?" Outsider prodded.

"No," Emily shook her head.

"Well t'anks anyway," Outsider nodded, putting back on his cap as he turned away. Emily smiled when she heard him cursing well within earshot of her. At least he had the decency to not do it directly in her presence. The boys, no matter how many manners or airs they would try to adopt, their street roots always took hold, but that didn' bother her. Boys would be boys, but there was no way to hide the complete distaste for the bruise she had on her face. Shutting her eyes tightly, she squeezed back her tears, then continued with her work.

****

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__

//Damn,

Damn,

Damn,

Damn….//

****

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"Whot ya doin' heah Brooklyn?" Jack asked, as the boy entered through the main door, Racetrack in tow. 

"I'se stayin heah foah da night," He said. "Needed a lil' change," His all knowing act was on in full swing, but Jack looked at him with doubt.

"Youah feelin' a'ight Spot?" Jack's eyes shifted nervously. 

"Yeah, I'se fine, just 'round da area an' don' feel like walkin' back," he lent his cane against the wall. "So ya got a bunk foah me oah whot?"

"Yeah, I gots a place foah yous," Jack started up the stairs and Spot followed, forgetting his cane at the door. A little ill-at-ease with his friend's sudden appearance, Jack tried to start a casual conversation. "So how's dat goil, ya know da one at da lodgin' house?"

"Emily?" Spot raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, dat dame yous were just bein' nice ta," Jack hid his mirth at the words.

"Oh," Spot reached the top of the stairs and went to the bunk that Jack pointed to. "She's doin' fine," Spot couldn't remember what he had told Jack about her, but he didn't want to find out. 

"So ya still bein' nice ta 'er?" Jack leaned against the bedpost, as his friend sat down on the mattress, he seemed tired.

"Yea, o' course I'se bein' nice," He looked up at his tall friend. "I'se a nice guy when I wanna be," he told the skeptic. 

"Yous a nice guy when dere is somet'ing yous want," Jack chuckled. "Why ya wont dis goil so bad Spot?" he teased and Spot reached for his cane but he couldn't find it.

"Wheah did I put my cane?" He searched. "Dammit," he muttered and Jack's chuckle turned to a laugh. "It ain't funny Jackie-boy," He headed for the stairs. 

"So yous just bein' nice ta 'er?" Jack followed along. "Dere ain't nuttin' behind it?" Spot started to wish Jack to the bottom of the east river.

"No, dere ain't nuttin' else," Spot went down the stairs. "I likes 'er an' I likes spendin' time wit' 'er," he found his cane. "An' dats all," he neglected to inform Jack about the kisses they had shared the night before, or how comfortable he had been with her in his arms. 

"Whot 'bout Frost?" Jack pointed to the necklace that was still hanging around Spot's neck. The question hung for a few moments as Spot remembered what the strange woman had said about her.

"Ya can nevah foahget a goil like Frost," Spot answered solemnly and Jack stayed silent. Even though the Brooklyn leader never admitted it to Jack, he had loved Frost. Jack had loved her too, and when you love someone you never forget about them, ever. 

"'Ey Jack, we'se gotta pokah game stahted ovah heah, wanna play?" Specs called over to their leader. 

"Yeah, shuah," Jack agreed. "Ya wanna play Spot?" 

"Shuah," Spot nodded, "Deal me in," he needed a distraction from the days activities. 

__

Is'll 'ave time ta talk ta Spot latah, Jack reasoned, thinking of the previous mediations of the day._ Even if dere ain't nuttin' Is'll feel bettah,_ and then without any more worry, he moved to circle of boys. Now wasn't a time to dwell on problems, real or imaginary, now was the time to play poker.

The time for Jack to talk to Spot never came as the Brooklyn leader bowed out after the first game claiming that he needed to get up early so he could make it to Brooklyn in time to sell. So he climbed the stairs and went to the bunk assigned to him, pulling off his shirt and undershirt, her bent to remove his shoes. When he did, he was surprised to find that his sock were wet. Surely his feet hadn't sweated that much, then it came back to him, and he had swum in these shoes early. If the twig had been in his hair and the woman had been on the street, how strange would it be to find his socks were wet? 

Pulling them off of his feet, he resolved not to think of it anymore, it never happened, and nothing was going to happen. Even if it had happened, what would you call it? It wasn't a dream, it wasn't reality, and it was somewhere in between. In the place between asleep and awake, where dreams still feel real, and the world is altered, but he wasn't going to think about it. Still the woman's warning rang in his head as he lay there.

__

You're a marked man Patrick, take care that you leave nothing unchecked, nothing unturned, you are the holder of your fate, and he remembered every word perfectly. _Be not afraid to look behind you, your pride is your weakness_, the vision continued. _Together you will conquer, you and her, apart you shall fall,_ the strange words haunted him. Her who? Had Emily been the right choice? Rolling over on his side, he thought one single and solitary word that summed up all of the frustrations and pent up emotions he felt. _Damn._

****

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__

//With the ties of romance,

Comes the doubts,

The fears,

And the beauty…//

****

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Emily sat on the rooftop alone that night. It was strange; Spot hadn't been there that day. He had missed days before, but she had felt so sure that he would have been there today, especially after last night. _Did it mean anything to him? _She wondered. It had meant the world to her. A few weeks ago she wouldn't have dreamed of it ever happening with anyone, and most definitely not this boy.

Something was wrong, Emily could feel it. Her father hadn't come home tonight, that was becoming more and more frequent. Every once in awhile in the past he wouldn't come home from where ever he had been, but now it happened weekly. His dealings were secret and Emily wasn't aloud to ask what they were. That lesson had been learned quickly when she had asked he had slapped her and told her never to ask again. She hadn't and she didn't plan to.

Holding her bruised cheek in her hand, she remembered how the newsies had looked at it when they were talking to her. They had gawked at it, staring as though it was an oddity they had never seen. Most likely they had seen it several times; she felt that they themselves had experienced bruises and marks quite like it. Still it was a mark of shame, a mark of weakness, the eternal brand of silent suffering.

Inside she felt dead. Every time her father struck her, or told her she was worthless, she believe it, and something inside her died. Perhaps she really was worthless, a nothing that was a nobody. That was most likely all Spot saw her to be as well. How it hurt to think that, but the seeds of doubt had already been sowed and there was no retracting them.

Sighing deeply she looked at the sky, the stars were hidden tonight. Nothing was magical about the deep endless sky with no sign of light anywhere. The endless expanse was filled with nothing but heavy, angry, dark clouds that blotched out the beauty of the shining lovelies. Standing, she headed back to the window, there was no magic tonight, only pain.

****

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Outsider had that strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him something was wrong, but he didn't know what. The proposition that it had something to do with Spot didn't sit well with him. With Queens acting strangely, anything could have happened to their leader. Lately he had been moody and brooding. Those two things didn't normally label Spot Conlon. Obviously, the Queens situation had him worried, but maybe there was something else.

Rumors had been flying around the Lodging house. Rumors about different thing, but all having to do with Spot. Some them held to Spot and the lodging house owner's daughter, Emily. Others had to do with different ones of Spot's stories being false tales. Others still blatantly claimed that Spot was a terrible leader and she be 'removed' so to speak. These were nothing new, there were always grumbles here and there, but these were more than grumbles and people seemed to be listening to them. 

Meanwhile, Shadow knew all of this. His work was underway. If he couldn't find any real stories, he could always make a few up. No one would dare to actually ask Spot if they were true, his intimidation was working against him in this case. Soon he would be able to report to Lice and phase two would be underway. 

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A/N: Eh… I know… kind of a weak, short chapter, especially for having to wait for it so long, but no one was waiting for this one I guess… because no one reviewed my last chapter… WAA! I guess that is what I get for re-posting it over the shout outs…. Oh well, I am not disheartened. This place isn't about getting reviews, it is about being able to put up your works for the enjoyment of others. I really hope you did enjoy this chapter, and if you did, you can give me some encouragement and tell me so! Just click the little box down there, please! ^_^ 

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MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE, EVE EVERYONE!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

HAPPY KWANZA

HAPPY HANUKA

HAPPY WHATEVER-YOU-CELEBRATE!

I celebrate Christmas, but whatever. I posted this Chapter on the 23 of December, so try to figure out what the Merry Christmas Eve, Eve thing means. ^_^ If you can tell me, umm… You get… A gift-wrapped newsie of your choice for a Christmas present! Um… well… maybe not, but whatever… I'm going now.


	6. Complications

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. The song lyrics posted through out are not mine. They belong to the label, the producers, the artists, the writers, the band, and anyone else who is associated with their genius. I don't own them, I never will, I am not making money off of them, and I take no claim to them at all.

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A/N: I sat down to write this chapter and I had to sit and think for a second which story I was writing. I have to gear myself differently each time I write **Frostbitten**, it's hard to get into my head what characters are in each story. AGH! Okay, now that I vented about that, I am going to actually write.

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Warning: This chapter is rated PG - 13 for a lot of profanity, violence, scenes of domestic abuse, and just general angst and sadness.

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Chapter 6: Complications

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"_None so blind as those that will not see_,"   
-- Matthew Henry

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"Dammit!" Spot exclaimed under his breath as he woke in the Manhattan lodging house. So it really had happened, it wasn't some strange dream or hallucination. 

Rolling over onto his stomach, he buried his face in his pillow and uttered a string of loud vile profanity. When he was quite through, he got up and dressed swiftly but silently. He still had to get back to Brooklyn before the gates opened. There were no days off for the newsies, and even though he had enough money to miss a week's selling, it was a status position. If you didn't sell papers, you weren't a newsie, and if you weren't a newsie, how could you be their leader?

Going down the stairs, he met Kloppman down in the lobby. Handing him a coin, he paid for his night's board without a word. For being such a dishonest scoundrel, he was shockingly moral. Heading out the door, he started to Brooklyn at a dead run. He didn't pay attention to the people who stared at him as he passed by them at a sprint. The lookers and gawkers weren't a new thing to him.

Sometimes as he ran his cane would bang against his shins, or his slingshot would come lose, but he didn't have time to slow down. The sky was overcast, the wind had picked up, but it was still hot. By the time he was at the Brooklyn Bridge, he was dripping with sweat and winded. Taking his pace down to a jog he made it to the gate in good time. The group wasn't even there yet, and he stood waiting, trying to catch his breath and clear his thoughts.

The run had done him good, it had helped to release pent up feelings as well as energy. The calming effect of such a strenuous activity was pleasing, but he still had the same problems he had before the exercise. Queens was still baffling in their behavior, his feelings towards Emily were baffling, and the general unrest among the newsies was becoming apparent. Something was afoot and he had no control over it, this was not a feeling that he liked or was accustomed to. Distraction from his train of thoughts came with the arrival of his comrades.

When he saw the crowd of boys and girls approaching, he steadied his breathing and much as possible. It wouldn't do for them to see him in such an exhausted state. For tired he was, the sleep in Manhattan had been as troubled as his sleeps in his Brooklyn shack. The arrival of the group was a relief to Spot for it allowed him to focus on something other than his turmoil filled thoughts. 

The first thing that Spot noticed about his group was that none of them were too eager to greet him and some didn't greet him at all. All of them seemed to be casting him shaded glances and some talked in lowered voices. Immediately he was suspicious, was there more news from Queens? When Outsider took his place next to the leader Spot spoke to him.

"Is dere somet'ing happenin' in Queens?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the group.

"Not dat I knows of," Outsider shrugged, he was clearly uncomfortable.

"Whot's all dese people talkin' 'bout?" Spot motioned to the group with his cane, glowering at them all from under his lowered cap.

"Differ'nt t'ings," Outsider shifted awkwardly. 

"Whot kind o' differ'nt t'ings?" Spot growled, knowing that Outsider wasn't telling him something.

"I ain't shuah," Outsider swallowed heavily. "Why don'cha ask 'em?" Spot's eyes narrowed as he looked at his friend, and Outsider shrank ever so slightly. 

"Yous!" Spot pointed with his cane to a pair of small boys who were staring out-rightly at the leader, obviously talking about Spot. "Twitch, Light," he called there names out and there was an eerie hush among the newsie ranks. The rattle and clatter of the street busy around them, but their own mass silent. "Whot ah yous talkin' 'bout?" He kept his cane pointed directly at them, unwavering and intimidating. 

"N-nuttin' mistah S-Spot suah," Twitch sputtered. 

"Yeah, nuttin'," Light agreed all too quickly.

"Whot kinda nuttin'?" Spot's eyes narrowed further. 

"W-we'se weah t-talkin' 'bout yous," Twitch blurted out and his friend gave him a withering glance. 

"We'se weah talkin' 'bout sellin' papes," Light quickly covered. "An' how good yous ah at it," after that was said, Light quickly elbowed his companion.

"An' how good am I?" Spot prodded.

"Y-yous da b-best," Twitch was rubbing his sore arm from where Light had jabbed him.

"Dat's right," Spot lowered his cane and looked over the whole group. Every eye was on him, no one talked, no one moved. The street activities buzzed around all of them, but they seemed to be under a spell. "I'se da best," Spot scanned the group. "I'se da leadah," the gate started to open behind him. "An' any moran dat says differ'nt, Is'll soak em," with that, he turned and stormed up to the distribution center. 

Behind him, the rest of the newsies shuffled in, scared that Spot knew exactly about what they were all speaking. Only one walked fairly confidently inside, it was Shadow. Most of the others simply assumed that he didn't know well enough to be afraid of Spot at this time, but that wasn't the case at all. Inside, he was soaring, his mission was almost being completed for him. 

When Spot marched out with his papers, the crowd parted like the red-sea as he passed through. Spot intimidated all of the newsies. Which was a problem, but not one without a solution. While intimidation was a powerful leadership tool, it could be defeated if they simply discovered that he wasn't worth being afraid of. There inlayed the trouble, how could he make their leader look weak in front of all of them? 

It might have been a problem, but every problem had a solution. It was only a matter of time before this Spot Conlon would be a thing of the past and Brooklyn would be in a state of chaos. Only a matter of time before Shadow would be able to report back to Lice with the news. The sweet taste of victory already filled his mouth as he waited in line for his papers. Yes sir, this was going to be a time to remember.

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Why'd ya have,

To go an make,

Things so,

Complicated…?//

****

. : ^_^ : .

"Lice!" Bruiser ran panting into the warehouse where they made their home.

"Whot?" Lice sounded annoyed, he had just been daydreaming about the success that he was anticipating with much delight. 

"We - we'se got - a prol'em," Bruiser leaned over, trying to suck air into his burning lungs when Drifter came in shortly behind him, gasping the same way. Lice was at full attention now, he easily reclined pose on the chair had changed to a tense standing position. 

"Whot kinda prol'em?" He marched over in front of the two breathless boys. "Whot kinda problem?" He yelled when he didn't get an answer.

"Dere's - somma da - dere's a -" Drifter sputtered.

"Speak up, man!" Lice grabbed both of them by the collars of their shirts. "Whot ah you's talkin' 'bout?" 

"S-somma da boys," Bruiser panted. "Dey caughta goil," he explained, trying hard to catch his breath.

"Whot's so specoil 'bout catchin' a goil?" Lice's strange eyes narrowed.

"She-she's from - Brooklyn," Drifter added to Bruiser's statement. At the sound of the word Brooklyn, Lice's fists tightened on the fabrics of their shirts. 

"An' why does it mattah dat she's from Brooklyn?" Lice growled. His strange eyes narrowing dangerously.

"She s - said dat," Bruiser took a deep breath, stuttering under his leader's intense gaze. "Dat dey'd bettah let 'er go, oah else," he dropped off, trying to gain his breath still.

"Oah else whot?" Lice exploded, his anger apparent.

"Oah else - da - Brooklyn newsies - would - soak us," Drifter managed through his gasping breaths. Lice's mind jumped to all kinds of conclusions. This girl could be a newsie with Spot, but then again, she might just know him. Or she could be just using the name for intimidation purposes, but something told him that it was the first.

"Whot do we'se know 'bout dis goil?" Lice asked, trying to resolve this conflict in his head.

"Nuttin'," Bruiser answered, his breath slowly returning.

"Shit," Lice muttered, letting go of the boy's shirts and turning his back to them. Pacing back and forth, Lice thought of what to do. There were several options, but he couldn't imagine what he was to do. "Wheah ah dese boys?" he questioned.

"Dere ovah - 'bout fifteen - blocks," Bruiser managed. "I ain't shuah - whot de's - goin' ta do - wit' her," he stood slowly.

"Dey can't bring 'er back heah," Lice thought out loud. "We'se a'eady took too many chances takin' doe's Brooklyn kids," Lice announced. "But we'se nevah took a goil afore," he muttered as he resumed his pacing. "We'se could get da infoahmation dat we'se need an' den we'se won' havta wait as long foah Shadow," he reasoned. "But if we'se takin' dat goil, we'se could be ruin Shadow," He continued with his absent babble, the two boys now sitting on the ground, able to draw in more steady regular breaths. "Yous say dat she wos fifteen blocks from heah?" he asked to the two on the ground.

"Yeah," Drifter affirmed and Bruiser nodded.

"Dat means dat she wos deep inta Queens," he muttered. "Whot do ya t'ink da lil' whoah wos doin' in heah?" the question hung in the air. "She can't come back heah…" he continued to murmur under his breath and Drifter cleared his throat.

"Whot do ya want us ta do?" Drifter ventured tentatively, unsure what reaction to expect from his distracted leader. 

"Whot?" Lice asked, snapping back to the present. 

"Whot do ya want us ta do?" Drifter asked again, his breathing returning to normal.

"Go find da boys," Lice paused for a moment, then continued. "Tell dem," he thought again. "Tell dem ta let da goil go," he decided and both of the boy's jaws dropped.

"Let 'er go?" Bruiser spoke in disbelief.

"Yes, let her go," Lice spoke plainly. 

"Why?" Drifter chimed in.

"Because, we'se don' need her," Lice explained.

"T'ink o' all da infoahmation dat da broad could give us!" Drifter protested.

"We'se got a damn spy ovah in Brooklyn!" Lice exclaimed, angered at their failure to comply with his wishes. "Do ya t'ink dat dis goil can tell us anyt'ing dat Shadow ain't goin' ta find out?" He asked angrily. "Do ya t'ink dat I'se don' know dat we'se could use da goil?" he posed question after question. "We'se could use 'er foah a lil' while, but den we'se goin' ta have Shadow come back and we ain't goin' ta need her," he explained, not calming down. "Da only t'ing dat keepin' dis goil is goin' ta do is hoyt us," Lice took a deep breath before he went on. "Shadow's doin' da spyin' foah us, we don' need ta pick dis goil foah none," he was so preoccupied, that he didn't see the three boys come in with a struggling girl.

"Shadow's a spy?" the sound of a high pitched voice from behind him startled Lice out of his anger. "Dammit! Why do I'se always havta fall foah da wrong type?" The girl swore, spitting on the ground. Lice was shocked.

"Who is dis goil?" Lice demanded of the three.

"Dat's da goil we'se told ya 'bout," Bruiser's voice came from behind. 

"Shit!" Lice threw his arms up in the arm and the girl shrunk back a little, even though two burly young men held her firmly on both sides.

"We'se t'ought dat since youah spy were takin' so long dat yous might wanna have an update," The third boy, the one not holding the girl, offered.

"So ya took mattahs inta youah own hands?" Lice ran his fingers though his mousy brown hair. 

"Yeah," one of the piped up.

"Well now, t'anks ta yous," he motioned to the three. "We'se got ouah selves a complication," he pointed to the girl. "Now alla Brooklyn's goin' ta be lookin' foah 'er, ya evah t'ink o' dat?" Lice voice started to rise again. 

"Oh," the third boy who hadn't spoken yet, spoke. "Shit."

"Yeah," Lice sounded incredulous. "Shit."

"Why don' we jus' let her go back?" Proposed Bruiser.

"Because," Lice's voice was a deadly calm, "She hoyd 'bout Shadow."

"So whot ah we goin' ta do wit' her?" Drifter asked, now standing and moving up beside his leader.

"We'se goin' ta keep 'er heah," Lice's mouth curled into a wicked smile. "If we'se goin' ta have guest, we'se might as well loin moah 'bout her," he looked at the girl again, and her eyes grew wider as she looked into his two-toned ones.

"Oh Gawd," she gasped. "Yous da boy dat Fiah was talkin' 'bout," she breathed.

"Fiah?" Lice raised his eyebrows. "Is dat lil' bastard able ta talk a'eady?" he sounded slightly disappointed. "Well we'se just goin' ta havta make shuah dat we'se do a bettah job dis time," his smile held nothing but cruelty, and his smooth tone nothing but malice. "Lemme introduce meself," Lice took on the mock air of a gentleman. "I'se Lice," he told her plainly. "An' yous a complication," he pointed to her, his terrible smile still in tact as he leaned down very close to her face so she could hear his next whispered phrase. "An' I don' like complications."

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//These tears I don't show,

The ones I cry in the silence,

Hurt more when I know,

That all your words are true…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

"Emily!" Her father's voice soared through the empty lodging house. "Emily get down here!" He yelled up the stairs of the private quarters.

"Yes da?" she came running down into the kitchen. 

"What were you doing up there?" He asked.

"I was working da," she answered weakly.

"What kind of work?" he grilled. 

"I was cleaning," she clarified. 

"Why weren't you down here starting my lunch?" He asked.

"Because, it is only ten o'clock in the morning," She explained. "Normally you don't come back for lunch until noon," she kept her eyes on the floor.

"And that is your excuse?" he sounded disgusted. "When I want lunch, I get my lunch," he raised his voice. "I work hard to keep you from living on the streets and I can't even have my lunch when I want it!" he exclaimed. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "If you like, I will start your lunch now," she offered. 

"No!" He shouted. "I don't want you to start it now, I want it to be done now!" he yelled in her face and she tried hard not to flinch. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You're worthless!" he told her. "I don't even know why I keep you here!" with those angry words, her father turned and stalked out of the kitchen. "I won't be back for dinner!" He yelled back as he opened the door and slammed it behind him. 

Shaking, Emily lowered herself to the floor. Tears stung her eyes as she covered her face with her hands. Leaning back against the wall, she cried. She was worthless, and she knew it. It was a sad thing, but she knew what had to be done. If Spot ever bothered to return, she would have to tell him to stop, to stop coming to see her.

Already, she had selfishly let him come, ignoring the danger she put him in every time he arrived. If her father ever caught them together again, he would probably kill Spot. She knew of his temper and the terrible mood that he so often was in. She also knew of the guns that he had and the fits he could often fly into. Yes, if he ever found Spot and her together in a way that they had been just one night ago, it could be fatal. 

There were suddenly so many complications. Complications that confused and baffled her more than anything else ever had. Why did this have to effect her the way it did? Was it so hard to simply dismiss Spot from her life? Yes it was, because whenever someone's heart was involved it was complicated. Why had she allowed it to go so far?

So Emily sat alone with her tears and her complications. 

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Why do we,

Say "goodbye,"

When it's really,

Not that good…?//

****

. : ^_^ : .

The streets were busier than normal today. Everyone seemed to need to go and buy something or go somewhere. It was as though they sensed the rain in the clouds and were hurrying to get their errands done before the storm struck. The early August heat was still intense, the humidity added only the insufferable heat. 

Around three in the afternoon, Spot was heading towards the lodging house. Yesterday had been so incredibly strange that he hadn't been able to see her and he wanted to do so. The day of selling had been harder than normal even with more customers out and about. The haunting of yesterday was still pressing heavily against his mind.

When he entered the front door of the lodging house he went automatically to the kitchen. Emily wasn't inside, so he knocked on the door that led to the private quarters only to receive no response. Searching over the building, he couldn't find her. Entering the bunkroom, he saw that Fire was resting comfortably, maybe he had talked more since that night, but right now Spot didn't care. He wanted to talk to Emily, not Fire. So he went out the window and around the edge. Sure enough, she was sitting on the roof, and Spot silently approached.

"Hey," he said softly, sitting next to her. She was all curled up into a ball, her head buried in her knees and her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. "Yous a'ight?" he reached his arm around her shoulder, but found some resistance when she shrugged it off.

"Please go away," her voice was muffled as her face was firmly planted in her knees.

"Whot?" Spot frowned.

"Go away," she said again. "Please."

"Why?" Spot didn't understand.

"I want to be alone," came the muffled response.

"Did I do somet'ing wrong?" Spot worried, but she shook her head, her long braid shaking across her back.

"No, just go," she shuffled her feet so she turned away from him slightly.

"I ain't goin' no wheah till yous tell me whot's wrong," Spot said firmly, not appreciating being bossed around.

"Nothing is wrong, go away," she insisted, but he knew that she was lying.

"If nuttin' wrong, why do yous wanna be alone?" he posed the question.

"I like to be alone," she insisted. 

"Horse shit," Spot didn't censor himself as he was growing angry at her persistent avoidance.

"Please Spot," she finally looked up at him. "I need to be alone."

"An' I," Spot swallowed hard to keep him self from yelling. "I needs ta talk ta yous," he kept his voice low, but his tone was underlined with thunder.

"We can talk later," she offered, hoping to be better at avoiding him so that the later would never come.

"We needs ta talk _now_," he insisted, her eyes were red around the rims, suggesting that she had been crying.

"Spot please…" she sounded frustrated and Spot was baffled by her odd behavior. Normally girls were the ones that demanded to talk, now she was trying to get him to be quiet and go away! 

"Please whot?" he frowned, doing his best to keep his temper in check.

"Leave," she spoke simply.

"Why?" he started the endless cycle of questions over and Emily let out an agitated sigh.

"I can't tell you," She sounded defeated.

"Why not?" Spot pressed. "Yous can tell me any t'ing," he told her and she placed her head back in her knees.

"Go away," she spoke a little more forcefully than before.

"No!" Spot insisted. "I ain't leavin' until yous talk ta me!" He knelt in front of her and wished her to raise her eyes to his again.

"There is nothing wrong," she lied.

"Jus' tell me!" Spot tried, exasperated. 

"No!" she exclaimed raising her eyes to his again. "There isn't anything to tell," she pleaded with her eyes for him to understand. "I just need to be alone, please, leave me," she searched Spot's confused face. 

In that instant, in the moment that the look was exchanged, something changed. The softness and concern that had been in Spot's face hardened and the confusion in his eyes melted to anger. Sadness welled up inside of her with the bittersweet realization that this was for the best. Spot couldn't be trusted, and the risk was far too great to even try. Though the pain in his eyes took whatever victory she might have claimed and tore it to shreds along with her heart. Standing stiffly, Spot adjusted his cap on his head.

"Fine," he backed off, his movements' jerky and sharp as one doing his best to control his anger. "Yous can stay up heah alone," the raw emotion that had been so apparent a moment ago was now being covered with his usual sarcastic mask. "I can see dat I ain't wanted 'round heah," he brushed some imaginary filth from the front of his shirt, practicing the art of being aloof. Emily watched him sadly, feeling his withdraw. "If yous'll excuse me, I'se got t'ings ta do," he sarcastically doffed his cap and bowed regally at the waist. Before he straightened, he met her eyes and winked rakishly. Though behind the self-confidence and the smirk, Emily could see the darkness in his eyes.

"Spot," she felt her heart twisting inside of her. "I'm sorry," she tried, knowing she had hurt him more than she had ever thought she could, but he held up a hand to silence her from going further.

"No," he looked away, malice lacing his cool words. "Yous wanna be alone," he tucked his cane into his belt loop. "Yous can be alone," he started off to the edge of the roof to lower himself down. "I'se won' be boderin' yous again," he started to lower himself. "G'bye," and with that he slid off the side. Emily heard a sound thud as his feet made contact with the earth, then the heavy, angry footsteps marching into the distance. 

__

I'm sorry Spot, She thought. _But you deserve someone who isn't worthless._

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Stopping me,

Back stabbing me constantly,

Remembering all the times,

That you fought with me…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

"Whot ah yous talkin' 'bout?" Outsider scratched his head, standing across from the strange new boy with big ideas and treasonous words.

"Spot's jus' usin' yous," Shadow told him. "Evah body can sees it," he said frankly. 

"Dat ain't true, me an' Spot's friends," Outsider denied, trying not to remember all the times he and Spot had argued, all the times he had helped Spot and never been helped in return.

"If yous such good friends, did ya know dat he likes dat one broad, Emily?" He dropped the question smoothly.

"Whot?" Outsider's eyebrows skyrocketed. "Da lodging house owner's daughter?" Surely this boy couldn't mean….

"Yeah," Shadow nodded lazily. "Dats da one," a sly smile quirking his lips.

"No," Outsider shook his head. "Dere ain't no way…." He frowned.

"Ah you so shuah?" Shadow tested. "He's been spendin' alota time wit' her," he pointed out.

"Yous wrong," Outsider said firmly, definitely. "Spot ain't like dat," he claimed. "An' yous bettah watch youah self, oah else Spot's goin' ta soak ya," With that, Outsider turned and walked away.

Though it hadn't been an instant success, Shadow knew he had done his job. For the seeds of doubt and distrust were now sown in the boys head and the rest of the newsies were already torn by the rumors that were floating around. Smiling, he headed towards a low priced diner. He was hungry and he had the money to buy a meal, perhaps the management might know something about Spot.

Meanwhile, Outsider was left alone with thoughts that left him discontented and upset.

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//I tried to sew it up,

To weaken your system,

I had you throwing up,

I brought you back into things…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

Storming down the streets, Spot kicked at the hard ground. No dirt came off of the hard packed, cracked, earth, and it didn't satisfy his rage. Everything inside of him was swirling around in a torrent of confused emotions as he felt that he was being torn in two directions. How could he want to kill someone, but want to kiss them at the same time? 

Swearing vilely, he took off into a violent run, not knowing where he was going, and not caring either. Through the crowded streets, he sprinted, running into people, upsetting carts and baskets, but not stopping. He was blinded by the burning rage that was swallowing him whole. 

Kind that is what he had been, and she had shunned him. Why had he even tried? Kindness showed weakness and weakness wasn't allowed. The thought of himself being weak fueled his feet faster as he propelled himself in no specific direction. He ran until his limbs ached, his lungs burned, and his muscles screamed for relief. Collapsing against the wall of a brick building, he grasped at the key and cross around his throat.

Sucking in the air that his body craved, Spot didn't even bother to wipe the sweat that was dripping down his trembling body. Closing his eyes, he mentally berated himself for being so stupid. Hadn't he learned his lesson already? Opening his eyes, he looked around himself.

He was in an alley, and there was no one else in the passageway with him except the few rats that would skirt past every so often. At the sight of them, he was transported back to the refuge, to that cell where the rats had been the only contact with anything else living. Not wanting to remember, he closed his eyes again and let the sound of his heavy breathing drown out their scurrying. 

When he had been running, the wind from his pace had helped cool him and keep him from overheating, but now as he stood still in alley where all the wind was shielded, his core was quickly warming. Bile began to rise in his throat and he tried to choke it down to no avail. Doubling over, he vomited violently. Spilling whatever content he had in his empty stomach on the dirt ground of the alley. Sweat dripped into the puddle of vomit as he stayed bent in half, unsure if he had finished. 

The sound of flies buzzed his ears as his body convulsed again as his poor stomach tried to purge itself of its non-existent content. The dry heaving made Spot's throat sore, but he was thankful for the physical distraction from his emotional pain. After a few moments, he straightened and wiped his mouth across the back of his sleeve. The heat had made him dizzy and he tottered precariously. 

__

Do not shun her or turn away from her… The words came back to him and he gripped the sides of his head, trying to force the voice out of it. _Your pride is your weakness, _The voice reminded and he swore, completely sick of the repeated warnings. 

"Shaddup!" He yelled as the words of the previous day reverberated inside his skull, adding to his turmoil. 

__

If you continue to cling to your ways, you will both be destroyed, the prophecy taunted. 

"Shaddup!" he staggered down the alley, his feet unsure as he continued to cover his ears with his hands, his eye shut. 

__

Together you will conquer, you and her, apart you shall fall, The voice continued like a recording, repeating over and over in his mind.

Stumbling, Spot fell hard onto the ground, not even bothering to open his eyes, he curled into a ball on the ground. Rocking back and forth, he tried to will the voices to go away. The complete rigid control that he normally had over himself was gone as he tried to quiet that voice inside his head. The emotions raged inside of him, tearing him apart as he rocked.

Why did he have to let this girl inside of him? Spot already knew the answer, he was addicted to the rush, the fall, the risk. Most all he was addicted to the pain that came with it. Anger, frustration, self-loathing, hate, rage, sadness, confusion, and the feeling of complete and total chaos bounced around in his soul, tearing it apart at the seams. 

Tears stung the back of his eyes as he hit the absolute low that he could. Things were spinning out of control as he tried hard to keep some dignity and not break down. It was little use and he ducked his head, the first of the hot tears ran scalding down his cheeks. Frustrated, he brushed them away, wishing that the voice were so easy to be rid of. 

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Today is fine,

And she burns,

Today is fine,

And she burns…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

"Lemme go!" the girl with bright red hair protested, struggling against the boy's hold.

"Not a chance doll," the boy's face twisted into a bitter smile. "Yous goin' ta tell me jus' whot I wanna know," he slammed her down onto the chair and took the rope that his assistant handed him. "We'se goin' ta have a nice lil' chat," he spoke with such frightful calm that the girl's eyes were wild with fear as he tightly tied her to the chair. 

"I don' knows nuttin'," she already denied any knowledge. "Jus' lemme go an' I swear dat I won' tell nobody whot I hoyd," she promised, her voice a tremulous falsetto.

"Sorry doll," the boy who was tying her pulled on the rope, tightening it enough to draw a gasp from her lips. "Dat ain't da way dat it's goin' ta woyk," he began looping the rope into a knot. 

"Please," She begged. "I ain't done nuttin' ta yous," she squirmed uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat as she was subject to the stares of dozens of boys. "Jus' lemme go."

"Nope," the rope tier came around in front of her, his eyes looking deep into her own gray ones. "Now yous goin' ta be a good goil an' tell me jus' whot I wanna knows," he smiled wickedly, his two-toned eyes flashing deviously.

"Whot if I don't?" she ventured bravely.

"Well den," Lice leaned closer to her face. "I'se got some ways ta persuade ya," he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so her face was upturned. Brazenly, he pressed his mouth to hers, long and hard. When he pulled back, he was surprised when she spat on his face. Letting go of her hair, he wiped his hand down his face, and was even more shocked when he felt the toe of her boot come in firm contact with his shin.

Swearing loudly, he stepped back and the whole group of boys exploded in laughter, the girl seemed to be very satisfied with her self. It wasn't until Lice recovered from the assault that her manner changed. The evil light that flashed behind his eyes was enough to strike fear into even the hardest of hearts. Raising one hand, Lice snapped his fingers and the room fell absolutely silent.

"I hopes yous had youah fun," he growled. "Cause yous goin' ta regret dat," he stepped grabbed an extra coil of rope and stepped forward. Kneeling, he tied her legs to the legs of the chair and stood again. "Now," he started heavily. "Tell us 'bout da Brooklyn newsies."

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Crawling in my skin,

Without a sense of confidence,

Consuming, confusing,

Crawling in my skin…//

****

. : ^_^ : .

Outsider's mind was plagued by the words that new boy had said. Could he possibly be right? No, he had known Spot for years and he wouldn't do that to him, would he? It was true that Spot was a strong leader and if he had to, he would forsake friends for power. He thought back to the first time they had met at the lodging house early that one cold morning.

They had both been younger than ten years old, and Spot had wakened him claiming that he had been crying in his sleep. The pretenses had been forsaken at that age, no restraints in the relationship as the simplicity of a childhood friendship was born. Had their relationship changed over time? Had the role of leader really effected Spot as much as Shadow had implied? 

Spot wouldn't use him like a tool would he? He wasn't just a pawn in his game was he? No, he couldn't be, he and Spot had known each other for too long and too well to play each other. Hadn't they? It was true that Spot knew much more about Outsider's past than he knew about Spot's, but no one really knew Spot's past. 

It was rumored that he had been raised in Ireland in a rich family, then kidnapped and shipped to America by a jealous relative. This could be a complete lie, or the whole truth, but no one would be able to tell you for sure. The secretive leader had no history before a certain point. 

That wasn't ground for distrust though, was it? Just because he hadn't confided in Outsider didn't mean that he was plotting against him. It just meant that he hadn't told him, maybe Spot didn't remember. They were both incredibly young when they had met, and Outsider had related his past at a much earlier age that his current standing of sixteen. 

Looking up at the sky, the dark clouds didn't comfort him. They only increased the deep foreboding that churned within his chest. Trudging down the hot crowded street, Outsider moved numbly towards the lodging house. This couldn't be a good complication.

****

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"He left afore any of you were awake," Kloppman told Jack. 

"Did 'e say anyt'ing 'bout comin' back?" Jack questioned.

"Not that I remember," Kloppman patted Jack's shoulder in a fatherly manner. "Don't worry, I'm sure he will get back to Brooklyn safely," Jack smiled faintly, if only his friends safe return home was all he had about which to worry.

****

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//Am I drowning?

Am I fading away?

Am I drowning?

Am I fading away…?

****

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Spot had little idea of the time he spent in that alleyway, trying to recover from the raging tide of emotions that had assaulted him. Tears and sweat were dried on his face and vomit crusted in the corners of his mouth and splattered on his clothes. He reeked of humanity in its lowest state and he desperately needed to wash. His hygiene however was very far from his mind.

While the voice had faded and no longer assaulted his senses like the relentless pounding of the tide, he couldn't rid himself of the terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't a sickness like he had felt when he vomited, it was something much more controversial. To pinpoint the exact description would be impossible because it could be labeled several different things. 

Sitting up right, he looked around the alley with swollen, red eyes. Then on shaking legs, he stood and took a few unsteady steps. Out on the streets, he took a few moments to get oriented, he hadn't been in this area of town for quite some time. 

Walking on wobbly legs, he made his way towards the docks, he needed to take a swim. The people on the streets didn't seem to notice the slow moving lad who looked like he needed a good bath. They were too busy with their own problems to notice the obvious distress that the lad had. The golden tipped cane dragged at his side instead of striding along with pride. Even the slingshot in his waistband looked wilted.

After what seemed an eternity, he reached the docks. The day was hot and the bathers were many, but Spot paid no attention to any of them as they called out. Dropping his slingshot and his cane on the side, he dove in not even bothering to remove his clothes or shoes. The water that had been so soothing before was nothing but salt in his wounds.

The feeling of being totally immersed in the water only took him back to being covered in a very similar way in yesterday's unusual episode. Rising out of the water for a gasp of breath, he flipped his hair out of his eyes. No one approached him, no one bothered him, and he ducked under the water again, not swimming, just cleansing. 

The murky silence of his solitude was unnerving. For one of the very few times in his life, Spot wasn't comfortable being alone. In fact, the last thing he wanted was isolation, but in the same, he didn't want to see anyone. He was vulnerable and he knew it, this was a very disheartening feeling for the powerful boy. Weakness was a sin of the highest degree and that was something he knew wasn't allowed, ever.

His lungs burned for air as he forced himself to stay under the surface. Maybe he could drown his emotions in the water churning around him as boy after boy took their turns jumping off the docks. Perhaps there was a way to submerge the traitorous heart that had betrayed his love to another until its last beat was beat. A different kind of darkness began to creep in over the sides of his eyes as he felt reality slipping from his grasp. Then tiny pinpricks of light shone against his closed lids, his mind hazed, and somehow his lung didn't seem to burn anymore.

Unconsciousness was slipping over him and he felt panicked, but tried to stay under a little longer. However, the self-control that he had so keenly honed into wasn't enough to deny his will to live. Bursting above the water, he took in a large gasping breath, almost scared that he had been so close to the other side. Deep breath after countless deep breath, he treaded above the water, unobserved by the majority of the lads. Once his mind had cleared slightly, he swam over the ladder and got out of the water. That was enough for today. His clothes clung to his body and he stripped them off the bottom layer and waited for them to dry. It took a substantially longer amount of time for them to dry this time, as it was cloudy. No one came up to talk to him as he sat on the crates and waited. 

Waiting was torture for him for it only meant more time to think. More times to dwell on the past few weeks, the past few days, the past few hours, all of it in a whole was quite overwhelming. Now his mind drew him to the thoughts of Emily as she sat on the rooftop. How many different emotions had been spent on that rooftop? Contentment, anger, satisfaction, rage, pure bliss, confusion, happiness, hate, and a cornucopia of others, all of them contrasting one another. Right now he was still feeling those things as he sat high on his perch absently observing the boys playing on the docks and in the water. 

Today's behavior had been out of character for Emily, and it had completely confused Spot. All he had wanted was to do talk. Then he had wanted to comfort her because it was clear she was hurting. Instead of accepting his comfort and kindness, she had bristled and pushed him away, isolating him. The feeling hadn't been pleasant and he cursed her. 

Spot wanted to go back to that first night he had found her on the roof. The white gown hanging down to her ankles, her raven hair hanging free in the stillness of the night. The way she had let him hold her, and the absolute peace he had felt there in those moments. Everything had been simple then. Now everything was complicated, and Spot hated complications.

****

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Shadow knew that his work was now almost done, all he had to do was make Spot look weak in front of the masses and he already knew exactly how to do that. A few hired thugs had been paid to attack Spot on Shadow's cue. There was no possible way that Spot could fend for himself with the pair of Goliath sized men. 

The seeds of distrust and confusion had been sown deeply enough in his followers that it was a strong possibility that no one would fight for him. The complications that Shadow had created were part of the tangled web he hoped to weave. If his single mission had been to stir up the group and pitch them against each other, his job would have been complete.

****

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//I get reckless,

Scared, confused,

I feel desperate,

So for you…//

****

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Dried and dressed, Spot walked back to the lodging house. If nothing else, he had to see Fire. Everything inside of him hope that Emily wouldn't be there to see him enter, but everything inside of him desired that she be there, waiting. It wasn't to be so because she was no where in sight when he entered the front door. To stubborn and too proud to go and search for her, he went up the stairs to the boy's bunkroom.

Strangely, very few of the newsies were in the bunkroom. He had seen several down at the docks, but he also knew that there were several that hadn't been there. It was too hot to really do much else, but he tired not to focus on that right now. Now was the time to get his answers.

Heading into the bathroom, he got some water in a basin, remembering Fire's last request and headed back to the room. Every one of the eyes in the room was watching him carefully. No one had tried to wake Fire since the other night and he had stayed asleep. Apparently, whatever Queens had done to Fire had involved sleep deprivation. 

Setting down the bowl, Spot shook the sleeping boy violently. There was no time for gentleness as Spot's temper was thin and his desire for answers consumed him. Slowly, the boys eyes creeped open and Spot paid no attention to the group that were slowly edging towards the bed for a better view of what was happening. When the boy seemed fairly awake, Spot took the bowl and forced Fire into a sitting position. That woke him as he hissed in pain at the sudden jarring and repositioning. 

"Drink dis," Spot shoved the bowl to his mouth and Fire drank thirstily. Much like the last time, he spilled the water down his chin onto his chest. Both of Fire's eyes could now be opened and closed, but one was still obviously swollen. The swelling and bruising on his face was receding, but was still there. After he had drank the bowl dry, he sank back down onto the mattress and closed his tired eyes. "No!" Spot said sharply, shaking him again and his eyes stayed open. "Yous gotta stay away Fiah," Spot instructed.

"Why?" he rasped.

"Because I'se got some questions foah yous," Spot didn't wait but plowed right ahead. "Whot can yous tell me bout dis boy with two colored eyes?" He asked and Fire suddenly snapped to attention.

"How do yous know 'bout dat?" Fire asked shocked.

"Yous told me," Spot answered quickly. "Tell me whot ya can remembah," Spot prompted.

"He was da leadah," Fire remembered, his voice sounded much more alert than the day before. "Didn't see 'im till da last, punched me good," Fire coughed. "Didn't see 'im much…" his voice drifted as he started to fade into other thoughts and Spot shook him.

"Yous said dey asked ya stuff," Spot reminded. "Whot did dey ask yous?" 

"Dey asked 'bout you, 'bout youah fightahs, 'bout how long I'd sold papes wit'choo," he listed. "But I didn't tell 'em nuttin'," he smiled proudly. "Dey didn't get nuttin' outta me," he restated with delight.

"Why did dey wanna knows dat?" Spot prodded.

"Dunno," Fire's eyes glazed slightly. "I'se so hungry," he stated. "So tired…," he added softly. Obviously the lack of food had depleted any reserve of energy he might have had left. Queens must have really raked him over the coals.

"Go get him somet'ing ta eat," Spot ordered digging into his pockets and tossing a quarter to a boy standing near. "An' I wont evahy cent back," he glared at the small errand runner with warning in his eyes. When he turned back to Fire he saw that the boy had slumped down and that his lids were firmly shut again. The steady lift and fall of his chest told Spot he was sleeping again. 

"Dammit," Spot swore softly and looked at the group around him. "We'se ain't goin' ta wake 'im up till da food gets back," Spot instructed, knowing that whatever information Fire could give him would be practically worthless. Obviously Queens had been the one to question him and not the other way around. Irritated, frustrated, and mad, Spot was quickly annoyed by the silence and the stares. "Whot?" He asked, agitated.

"It ain't nuttin'," Ghost answered tentatively. "It's jus' dat Spitfiah didn' evah come back," Ghost referred to his girl.

"Weren't she sellin' wit'choo?" Spot asked, he hadn't even known Spitfire had been missing.

"Not taday, she wanted ta be alone," he informed and Spot grimaced at the reference to wanting to be alone. He knew that feeling all too well, but he didn't have time to think of that as Ghost continued with a question. "Do ya t'ink Queens took 'er?" 

"Queens ain't been takin' no one," Spot's brow furrowed, the pattern not fitting. "Even if dey weah, it don' make sense dat dey'd take 'er," he speculated, wondering why they would want a girl. It was known that Spot was a ladies man to an extent, but he had been practicing an unusual span of celibacy. Also, Spot didn't let girls into his ring of leadership, so what good could this girl possible be to Queens?

"I sawed 'er goin' towards da Queens boahdah oilier," Spice offered. "I asked 'er wheah she wos goin' an' she wouldn't tell me," she looked a little crestfallen, and wilted even more under Spot's intense stare. 

"Shit," Spot muttered, breaking his gaze from Spice. "If Queens took 'er dere ain't nuttin' we'se can do 'bout it now," he sounded defeated, but determined. "Dey seems ta retoyn da poyson aftah de's done wit' dem," Spot offered. "If dey have her," he added. "We'se can't do nuttin' 'bout it now," his words were made as an order.

"Yeah, we'se can beat dem bloody!" Ghost exclaimed. "If you ain't goin' ta help, I'se goin' ta Queens an' gettin her myself," Ghost made his way to the stairs.

"Stop!" Spot commanded and one of his top fighters turned. "Nobody goin' ta Queens," he ordered.

"I'se goin' an I don' cahah whot yous say," he challenged and Spot was temporarily set back by the blatant attack on his authority. In that gap, Ghost took the liberty of starting down the stairs and Spot followed close behind.

"You ain't goin' ta Queens," he followed after Ghost. "Ya don' even know if de's got youah goil," he brought up the point. "Foah all you knows, she out getting' dinnah some wheah," Spot continued with his verbal persuasion as he followed the boy to the bottom of the stairs. 

"Who ah yous ta tell me whot I'se can do?" Ghost yelled back in his face. "Foah all you knows dey 'ave my goil dere an' de's rapin' 'er!" He whirled and started for the door.

"An' foah all you knows, yous walkin' inta a trap. If Queens wants anybody it's goin' ta be boys like yous," Spot followed Ghost out the door, unaware that the majority of all the newsies upstairs were following. "Do ya really t'ink dat de's goin' ta keep one lil' goil?" Spot knew that Ghost was listening to his reason because he was slowing his pace. "Ya ain't goin' ta do 'er no good gettin caught," That was the winner because Ghost stopped. "Wait a night an' see if she don' show up," Spot said and Ghost walked over to him.

"If I waits," he started. "An' she don' show up," he continued. "Will ya do somet'ing 'bout it?" The silence that followed was more oppressive than the heat that enveloped them.

"Depends," Spot answered diplomatically. "I ain't goin' ta declare wah just cuz some dumb broad gets caught," he added, and dark fire flashed in Ghost's eyes.

"Ya take dat back, dats my goil yous talkin' 'bout," he threatened. 

"I ain't gotta take nuttin' back," Spot was mad enough as it was, but the fist that flew out and caught him along the jaw was enough to set him off completely. 

In a matter of moments he had wrestled Ghost to the ground and had his knife pointed at his throat. The whole fight had been a complete blur, but Spot's nose was bleeding, and his sleeve was torn. Outsider had faired the worse of the two. Despite the fact he was at least three inches and thirty pounds larger than Spot, he lacked the highly developed skill, wit, and speed of his opponent. All of those that had witnessed this stood in silent awe.

"I'se da leadah," Spot growled as he stayed planted firmly on top of Ghost, knife aimed. "An' whot I says goes," he waited until he felt that Ghost had been sufficiently punished, then stood, handing the knife back to Ghost. 

When they saw that the show was over, the crowd filtered back inside, all of them that are except for Spice. She stayed out with Spot and descended from the porch where she had been down to the ground level where Spot was. 

"Ah yous okay?" She looked concerned and Spot wiped under his nose, the bleeding had stopped.

"I'se fine," He answered toughly, the fight had actually done him good. It had helped get out his pent up aggression. "T'anks," he added and started for the door.

"Wait," Spice grabbed his torn sleeve and caught him. "I'se got somet'ing to tell ya," she started and Spot turned to face her, his eyes questioning. "It's jus' dat," she looked up at him and turned a bright crimson, then continued. "I'se wanted ta tell yous dis foah a long time, but I ain't known how ta tell ya," she struggled for the words. "It's just dat… dat…" she paused then suddenly stood of her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his, tangling her arms around his neck. Shocked, Spot put his hands on her waist. Unsure of what else to do, he returned the kiss.

****

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//Here's hoping,

That I'm invited,

I'm choking,

Heartbroken…//

****

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Emily had needed to clean the front windows for a long time. The smears from dozens of boys had long since taken their toll. Taking her bowl, soap, and rag, she moved to the entry hall. A large group of newsies had just progressed through the door and she was rather shocked. Normally they didn't come in such large groups, but she shrugged and moved on.

Stepping to the widow, she got her wet rag sufficiently soapy and pressed it to the window. The soap water blurred her view to the outer-world, but she could see two figures outside talking. One was a girl who was hidden almost completely by the tall boy in front of her. His back was to her, but she could see the girl stand up taller, wrap her arms around his neck, and kiss him.

The scene brought a sad pang to her heart, wishing that Spot were there with her. Even though she knew what she had done for them was the best, she couldn't help but wish that it was different. Sighing, she took a clean wet rag and started to clean off the soap. The bubbles gone, the figures were clearer but still distorted by the water. The boy's hands were now on the girl's waist as they continued to kiss. He was tall, lean, and dark, she was shorter, with dark brown hair and dressed like a boy. They must have been newsies here.

Taking the dry rag from her pile, she began to dry off the window and then she froze. That was Spot out there with that girl! He was kissing her just like he had kissed her the other night. Mortified, she dropped her rag on the ground and stared. Finally Spot lifted his head and looked down at the girl, Emily assumed that he was talking to her now and he made a motion back towards the lodging house, then turned his head and looked directly at her. At the sight of her, his mouth went slack and his face went blank. 

Hurriedly, Emily cleaned up the mess, picking up everything she had used to clean the window and hurried back into the kitchen. Dumping the water into the large tub, she flung open the door to the private quarters and dashed up the stairs, soap, dish, and rags in hand. Locking the door, she put down the things on the floor and collapsed onto the chair nearest her. Hearing the pounding on the door below her, she hurried into a different room, closing the door after her so she wouldn't hear his voice. Throwing herself onto the bed in the room, she covered her face with her hands, and wept.

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//So complicated,

So frustrated,

I want to hold you close,

I want to push you away…//

****

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It took awhile for Spot to realize what he was doing. It felt nice to be kissing a girl, to push all other thoughts and worries from his mind, but there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Finally, he pulled back and looked stupidly down at the girl in his arms. Suddenly it became clear what had seemed wrong. In his arms he held Spice, not Emily. 

"Spice," he started and cleared his throat, she had a dreamy far away look in her eyes. "I can' do dis," he informed her, snapping her back down to earth.

"Whot?" She asked stunned. "Why not?"

"Yous a nice goil an' all, but I likes someone else," he was bluntly honest.

"Who?" She asked, her bottom lip started to tremble.

"Ya know da goil dat woyks heah," Spot pointed behind him towards the lodging house, not sure why he was telling Spice this. Maybe it was because he felt that she deserved an explanation, he had taken advantage of her after all. "I likes…" he looked up at the door and his eyes moved instantly to the figure standing in the window beside the door. It was Emily. 

Every other thought flew from his brain as he watched dumbly as she hurried away from the window, taking whatever she was doing with her. A strange sick feeling came back to him and he shut his mouth. Unsure of what else to do, he untangled himself from Spice and hurried into the building. His efforts were rewarded only by the sound of the private quarter's door slamming. 

Rushing into the kitchen he pounded on the door calling out to her to open the door. He pounded until his hand ached from hitting it again and again on the hard wood. Completely and utterly defeated, Spot turned and slumped back against the door. Sliding slowly to the floor, he stared ahead blankly. 

__

Don't be afraid to look behind you, always look behind you Patrick. Your pride is your weakness, The words taunted him.

__

Anoddah complication, he thought bitterly, kneading his temples. _Just anoddah complication…._

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A/N: -Grabs a tissue and blows her nose- That chapter made me cry when I wrote it. After I finished I went and played all the newsie songs on the piano (I have the music book) to make me feel better and I was sitting there crying as I played piano. My mom got really worried about me. Ha, ha… Man this was depressing. I hope that you all don't hate me now for making everything that happened happen. -Hides from all the knifes and bullets aimed towards her.- As always, brutally honest reviews are always welcome.

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Problems: Hey, thanks for the review. I'm glad that you like my story so far, and I'm glad that I have the accent down pretty well. I have actually had a hard time NOT typing in that form. I'm glad that you liked how I described Spot selling papers. I personally like that part. It makes me so happy that you actually feel like you are part of the story, as an authoress, that is one of the biggest compliments that I can get. ^_^ You like me! You really like me! Anyway, I can't tell you if Spot dies at the end of this story… you never know….

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Annie: Ha, ha that I okay that you missed the 'new' fourth chapter. It really isn't that big of a deal, but I am glad that you liked it. I can't tell you if Emily was the right choice because if I did, that would ruin the story! Don't fall of your chair! I don't need you to hurt yourself, you are one of the only faithful readers I have for this story. -tear- Oh well, I am glad that I have you. Yes, Emily's dad is VERY stupid, but very vital to the story. If there weren't any bad guys, the story would be boring! You have to have that character you love to hate! ^_^

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Ireland O'Reily: I'm glad that you are enjoying my way of writing the story. I personally didn't know if it was too confusing how I switched all of the different views and such, but I guess it isn't. Thanks for letting me know! So you liked my poetic Angel/Demon metaphor at the end of chapter 4 eh? I do too! He, he… I was aiming for the creepy, surreal feel with that one dream/prophecy sequence. I'm glad that I got that across to you. Thank you for your faithful reviews. ^_^

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Strawberry Bunny: Hey, thanks for reviewing my story. I really try to have the people in my story stay in character. It is basically my number one priority when I am writing. I am glad that you like my story so far and I hope that you continue to enjoy. ^_^


	7. Worthless

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.

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A/N: .:* Gathers her thoughts and sits down at her laptop to write the next chapter of **Blind Spot**. Looks around to make sure she has everything, grabs a tissue and starts typing *:. Seriously folks, this has a very high tearjerker level. If you cry easily, this is not the time to come unprepared! Go now and get that box of tissues, cause I'm not sharing mine!

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Warning: If you cry during books, movies, or anything like that, you need tissues for this chapter, I almost started crying before I even wrote it as I thought it out in my head. This chapter is rated R for more than a lot of angst, heavy swearing, domestic violence, death, and any other terribly dark thing you can think of.

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Chapter 7: Worthless

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"_A sight to dream of, not to tell_,"   
-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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The night was long and hard for Spot. He stayed on the kitchen floor of the lodging house that night, not bothering to move from his slouched position as he stared blankly into the wall. No real thoughts processed, it hurt too much to truly think. The few that passed by the door and saw their fearless leader sitting there, shoulders hunched, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes blank and despondent, knew better than to bother him. 

His hands lay idle on the floor at this side, the knees of his long legs slightly bent as he sat statuesque on the floor. If his eyes had not been open, and his breathing had not been regular, one might have mistaken him for dead. Dead he might as well be, for he felt it. 

Something had left him when he had seen Emily standing in the window. A something so tangible, that he was sure he had seen it come out of his chest and melt into the evening air. The contentment he had felt at one point was completely gone, as was the control that he craved. 

The summer sun fell from the sky as Spot sat there and the full moon rose over the Brooklyn skies. The same stars that he and Emily had witnessed were shining above the clouds that hung heavily in the sky. The night passed on and Spot didn't sleep, if he slept he would dream and he didn't want to dream tonight. If he stayed awake, he could be in control of his pain, but if he were asleep….

Upstairs Emily finished crying long ago, but stayed with her face in her pillow, breathing heavily, trying to understand what had just happened. The betrayal and pain were sharp in her breast as she lay there. Nothing in the world could possibly console the dark haired angel as her heart and hopes lay shattered at her feet. 

It wasn't until she became aware of things as separate sensations that she moved. The coarse fabric of the pillowcase on her face, the salty trails that stuck to her cheeks, the uncomfortable bump of fabric under her hip, all of these struck her senses and she sat up. Blinking in the fading afternoon light that shone through window, she adjusted from the complete darkness to the pale light.

No noise was heard from down the stairs but she dared not go down, looking out the window which led the roof, she saw no one there, but dared not venture out in case Spot joined her. Going to the mess she had discarded when she first arrived in the quarters, she hurriedly cleaned them as well as she could, no sense in having her father become angry with her as well.

No more tears came as she cleaned. It was as though she had run out of tears, or at least the desire to cry. Anger was what she felt now. The all-consuming rage of betrayal coursed through her veins as she cleaned. Justifications of why she had the right to feel so wronged ran through her head one after another. Each mental accusation tumbling over the next likes a verbal waterfall as she searched for some other outlet for her nervous energy.

Her entire body shook as she got down on her hands and knees and started vigorously scrubbing the spotless floor. On and on she scrubbed, not caring that her arm burned or that her hand was scrubbing more than the rag, the scene between the newsgirl and the object of her affection played repeatedly behind her eyes. Blinded by the cruel scene, she failed to note the damage that she was wreaking on her hand. 

As quickly as the anger came, it flowed out of her as she exhaled a gusty sigh. Breathing heavily, she felt every fiber of her body trembling with the release of her anger killed the sudden burst of energy she had experienced. Dropping her head, she pressed her lids shut, willing the scalding tears she felt away. No amount of control would have been able to stop the torrent that ensued. Curling into a ball on the floor, she wept bitterly for the understanding that was all too clear to her now.

She really was worthless.

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"Dat bastahd likes da lodgin' house goil?" Flower asked with disbelief as she comforted her distraught friend. "Dere is no way dat Spot Conlon likes dat goil!" She insisted.

"Oh but he does," Spice sniffled. "He was tellin' me dat I'se a nice goil an' dat 'e woulda liked ta be wit' me but den he was sayin' dat he liked someone else an' he looked behind him an' dere she was in da window," Spice took in a deep breath. "Yous t'ink dat he was hit by lightnin' oah somet'ing," she looked at her friend. "I t'ink he's in love wit' her," she added forlornly as she leaned against her friends shoulder on their shared bunk in the girl's room. 

"Dere ain't no way dat he's in love wit' her," Flower reasoned. "Dere ain't no reason dat he'd love her," she stroked her friends brown hair affectionately. 

"Yeah," Piped up the newest of the girl newsies, Cards. "Spot Conlon's like a gawd," she spoke with a high-pitched fast almost incomprehensible babble. "Dere ain't no way dat he's goin' ta like some broad like dat goil," she comforted and Spice only sniffled. For a long time there were no more words, the girls all sat around in the silence, unsure what to do or say to mend the broken heart of a friend. It was silent until the knock on the door alerted the to the presence of someone outside.

"Whose dere?" Flower called.

"Outsidah," Came the low voice from outside the door.

"Come in," Flower granted permission, knowing better than to shun the second in command. "Make it shoat," She put a condition on his entrance to the girls room. "We'se in da middle of a crisis," She explained, and Outsider's dark gray eyes took in the scene instantly.

Flower and Spice were sitting on the top of one of the bunks, Spice looked as though she had been crying and Flower's arm was wrapped around her selling partner's shoulders. Spitfire was still missing and wasn't present in the room, which was strange, she was the leader of the girls and answered only the command of Spot or himself. The lack of her was almost haunting. About four other girls were littered aimlessly around the other top bunks, obviously offering comfort to their distraught companion.

"Goils," he muttered under his breath and Flower shot him a derogatory glare.

"Yous got somet'ing ta say oah ya just goin' ta stand dere?" Spice took an unusually aggressive position. 

"Yeah," Outsider glared back at Flower. "I gots a reason," he looked around the room all eyes were on him. "Any o' yous seen Spot 'round?" At the mention of the leader's name Spice let out a small howl. The sound was so foreign and pain filled that Outsider automatically took a step back. The primal utterance of anguish was disturbing at least. "Whot da hell was dat?" He frowned.

"Youah friend hoyt Spice heah," Flower answered bitterly. "Yous can pro'ly find dat bastahd wheah evah yous find dat lodgin' house whore," Flower added harshly. 

"Emily?" Outsider raised his eyebrows, Emily might have been described as a lot of things, but a whore had never been on of them.

"Yeah, dats her," Spice gave a very unladylike snort. "Spot prefoys her ovah me," she moaned.

"Whot do ya mean?" Outsider ventured cautiously, apprehension growing inside of him. 

"Ya mean yous didn' know?" Flower asked, honestly curious. "Ouah Spotty holds a fancy foah da whore," she turned her head and spat on the floor behind the bed. 

"How do yous know dat?" Outsider asked in disbelief, that Shadow's words might prove wrong.

"He told me," Spice growled. "Dat bitch! I'se goin' ta kill heah if I'se evah get da chance," She broke into sobs and Flower wrapped her free arm around her friend.

"Get outta heah," Flower hissed and Outsider knew better than to argue. He already had the answer he wanted, and he hoped that it was wrong. 

****

. : ^_^ : .

"I'se told ya all I knows," Spitfire complained, unsure how long she had been tied to the chair or how long she had been questioned by this terrible boy. 

"I told ya dat she ain't goin' ta know whot we'se wanted," Drifter growled to Bruiser beside him.

"She knows moah dan she's tellin'," Lice turned and faced them, and they both sat up straight. "An' dere's always a way ta get whot we'se wanna know outta someone," He smiled evilly and turned back to the girl. "If you ain't goin' ta tell us, we'se goin' ta play a lil' game," A light seemed to shine menacingly in his strange eyes.

"Let me go," she said in a trembling voice and Lice laughed loudly, but this laugh wasn't filled with the mirth and joy that laughter should be filled with. It was something much darker, something that struck fear into Spitfire's heart as she listened and she knew that she wasn't going to get out of this easily.

"Boys!" Lice called out, standing directly in front of a very frightened Spitfire. "Line up behind me," He ordered and every single boy moved instantly forming a single perfect line behind his leader. "We'se going ta play a lil' game," he looked into her wild eyes and smiled wickedly. "We'se going ta play a lil' game o' kiss an' tell," with that he leaned down and pressed his mouth roughly to hers and Spitfire knew that this wasn't going to be a fun game.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Outsider didn't go in search if his leader right away, he didn't want to. He might still be out selling papers, or running some sort of errands, he reasoned with himself. Night fell and the activities of the evening soon failed to entertain and they headed for their bunks. The girls departed with a few words to their beloved and Outsider cringed inwardly as they watched their public displays of affection. The only thing he could think of as he saw this was the idea of Spot trading romances with that Emily girl.

Ghost had been despondent most of the evening, not even rousing from his stupor for a game of poker. He simply wasn't interested and it was understandable. No one bothered to point out the obvious, that Spot had been right in his argument. Spitfire's attractions changed as often as the tide, and Ghost constantly had to battle for her affection. The fickle girl was pretty and charming enough that the proposition of finding someone new was never a closed option. 

As they all lay in their bunks, sleeping, Outsider and Ghost lay awake. Ghost drifted to sleep before Outsider, and the second in command lay on his top bunk, trying to sort though the questions in his muddled brain. Though it was probable that his friend was at his shack and had neglected to visit as was his custom at times, he was very unsettled by the rumors that he been floating around. Tossing and turning, Outsider finally gave up on attempting to sleep and climbed out of bed. Dressing, he looked for a cigarette and headed down the stairs. What he need was to clear his head, maybe go to where Spot resided and simply find him there asleep to calm his unneeded worries. 

Descending the steps, he saw that the lodging house owner wasn't guarding the door as he did every once in awhile. It was pure curiosity that drew him to the kitchen though, it was then that he was shocked. Against the door to the private quarters, was Spot. The leader looked anything but happy as he stared blankly at the walls. For a moment, Outsider though him dead, but then Spot turned his large glassy eyes towards the noise. After identifying the disturbance, he turned back to focusing on the wall.

"Spot?" Outsider ventured. 

"Yeah?" Spot answered, his voice as void of emotion as his expression.

"Whot ah yous doin' down heah?" Outsider moved over towards his slumped companion.

"T'inkin'," Spot replied plainly.

"Dey weah talkin' up dere 'bout yous," Outsider sat next to him, setting down the cigarette and match he had held in his hand.

"Shuah dey were," Spot laughed bitterly. "Lemme guess whot dey weah talkin' 'bout," Spot looked down at the match and picked it up in his fingers, turning it over aimlessly in the long sticks of tapered bronze. 

"Spot, look, yous need ta get ta bed," Outsider didn't like the way his friend was talking, perhaps he was drunk. "Why don' yous just come upstairs an' stay dere foah da night?" He suggested.

"Nope," Spot struck the match and held it straight up between his thumb and forefinger as the fire ate down the stick. "I ain't got no money ta spend da night," he said blandly. The fact was he had enough to spend a whole month here, but he didn't want to spend it.

"Is'll pay foah you," Outsider grabbed his friend's arm and tried to pull him up, but Spot didn't take his eyes off of the fire as it drew dangerously close to his fingers.

"Has yous evah had a broken heaht, Jesse?" Spot used Outsider's real name, thoroughly convincing Outsider that his friend was drunk.

"Let's go up stahs Spot," he pleaded with his friend and watched in amazed horror as the flame reached the tips of Spot's fingers. His friend didn't flinch but let the fire extinguish on his fingertips, burning the skin there, sending the smell of seared flesh into the room. "Yous been drinkin' boy, we'se gunna get yous ta bed now," if there had been even the slightest doubt to Spot's soberness, it was completely satisfied now.

"I ain't drunk," Spot turned his expressionless eyes towards his friend, and Outsider was struck with a pang of fear. Never had he seen such empty eyes, they were practically hallow in appearance with no spark or fire behind them.

"Fine, you ain't drunk, but we'se gotta sell tomorrow an' you needs ta get ta bed," Outsider treated his friend as he would a small child.

"I ain't goin' wit' yous," Spot answered defiantly. "I'se stayin' heah wit' her," he told him obediently. "Has you evah felt dat you ain't got nuttin' else ta live foah an' den dere is somet'ing dat comes along an' makes it all good foah a little while," Spot rambled aimlessly. "Den it goes away, an' you knows dat it was youah fault dat it left?" He asked and Outsider wasn't sure to say, but it didn't matter because Spot kept talking. "Dat's whot Emily did," Spot saw the flicker of change come into Outsider's eyes at the mention of the girl's name. "Emily made me feel dat I'se could be happy," Spot smiled bitterly. "An' now she's gone an' its all my fault," he turned back to the wall.

"Yous serious 'bout Emily, aren'tcha?" Outsider breathed, praying it wasn't true.

"Yep," Spot answered. "Don't mattah now dough," he shook his head. "An' now its ovah," He looked down at the burn on his hand. "The fires gone," he babbled, tossing the dead match to the side. "Look behind ya, dats whot she told me. Look behind ya, Patrick," he mimicked the voice and Outsider backed away slightly. "Youah pride is youah weakness," he voiced. "My fuckin' pride!" he ripped his hat off his head and threw it violently, then buried his face in his hands. "It's all my fault, all my fault," he muttered over and over again, and Outsider left the room, unsure of what else to do.

__

So it's true, he thought bitterly. _Damn it,_ he cursed. _If Shadow's right 'bout dis, was he right 'bout da oder stuff too?_

****

. : ^_^ : .

The 'game' had persisted for what seemed like hours to Spitfire. Her lips were now bruised and her mouth had the foul taste of a dozen different boys spit as they abused her in several countless ways. When they had finished, Lice had questioned her again, but she didn't know any thing. She hadn't known anything before the game, and he had grown frustrated with her. That was what caused the trail of dried blood from the corner of her bruised lips, he had struck her. 

The hard wood of the chair afforded her no rest as she squirmed through the night, trying to find some loose link, some weak bind, but to no avail. All it brought her was chafed wrists to add to her other list of injuries. Before the boys had gone to bed, they had bound her with whatever extra rope they could find, and with one final kiss, and good laugh at her reaction, Lice had gone to bed.

__

Bastahds, she thought as she tried to find some rest. _All o' dem_, She licked her cracking mouth. _I hopes dey boyn in hell,_ she cursed every one of them. _But why's do dey needs a spy?_ She wondered.

****

. : ^_^ : .

The boys were asleep and Lice took the opportunity to act as he had seen Spot do so many times. Going out the window, he shimmied around the edge, and discovered the roof. Looking around the flat surface, he figured that Spot must just jump, so he attempted the same. Rolling onto the ground, he stood and started the long walk to Queens.

When he arrived, he talked to the guard at the warehouse door, offering the password and the answers to a series of questions. After passing the exam, the guard allowed him entrance, and he slinked into the large room. Crates and discarded boxes lay around and boys made their beds on them. Finding Lice wasn't too hard, he was the only one still awake, pacing the night away.

"Yous late," he growled.

"I'se sorry," Shadow held up his hands. "A pokah game went late an' dey didn' go ta bed foah a long time," he excused. "Aftah all, yous didn' know I'se comin' tanight," he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Ya want me ta stay oah do ya not cahah?" Shadow tempted and Lice glowered at him.

"Is it all set?" Lice asked.

"Yeah," Shadow nodded. "Tamarra mornin' I gots some thugs ta take out Conlon in fronta da group," he informed.

"An' ah da boys goin' ta fight foah him?" Lice questioned.

"Not a chance," Shadow smiled wickedly. "Yous got da boys ready ta hit da boahdah sellahs?" 

"Yeah, dey knows whot de's doin'," Lice chuckled. "Damn! Yous don' know how good it feels ta be dis close!" he exclaimed quietly, so not to wake the others around them.

"In two days yous'll have da entiah Brooklyn terahtoahy at youah whim," Shadow smirked. "An' Is'll get whot yous promised me," he reminded.

"Whot?" Lice snapped out of his blissful fantasies. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he waved it off. "Yous'll get whot's comin' to ya a'ight," he smiled. "So dere ain't no boys willin' ta fight foah Conlon?" He asked again.

"Not a one," Shadow answered confidently. 

"Whot about da fightahs, how many of dem ah dere?" Lice asked.

"Fouahteen, fifteen at most," Shadow shrugged. "But ya got a couple goil newsies on da edges," he smiled. "Dey ain't dat bad lookin' if yous knows whot I'se mean," He hinted lewdly and Shadow's eyes glimmer.

"We'se a'eady got us a Brooklyn whore," he informed and Shadow frowned, he had heard of Spitfire's disappearance, but was convinced that they hadn't taken her.

"You's got Spitfire?" he asked cautiously.

"Yeah, if dats da name o' dat bitch," he rubbed his shin absently with his foot.

"Yous took her when I'se still in Brooklyn?" He raised his voice and Lice motioned him to be quiet.

"Shaddup will ya?" He ridiculed. "We'se only kept 'er cause she ovah hoyd somet'ing we'se said 'bout yous," Lice explained. "Oder dan dat we'se woulda let 'er go."

"But I knows dis goil," Shadow complained. "She ain't don' nuttin' against us, fact she's too stupid ta know whot's goin' on 'round her mosta da time," Shadow lamented. 

"It just happened taday," Lice rubbed his temple. "Look, I didn' wanna keep her heah, she ain't nuttin' but trouble foah us," he looked up at the tall boy. "But don' you go challengin' my aut'ority," he threatened. "Cause Is'll break ya down ta nuttin'!" 

"Fine," Shadow grumbled. "But foist t'ing aftah dis is all done, yous let da goil go," Shadow bargained.

"Why's it mean so much ta yous?" Lice's eyes narrowed.

"No reason, she's jus' a nice goil," Shadow defended his pride.

"Jus' a nice goil?" Lice raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "Yous got a fancy foah her, don'cha?" Lice lit a cigarette.

"No," Shadowed denied smoothly. "I jus' ain't got nuttin' against her," he took the cigarette from Lice's mouth and took a long drag before giving it back. "Tamarra, Is'll come back heah aftah I gets does goons on Spot," he told him. "Have ya boys ready," he ordered, and with that, he turned and walked out the door.

"So, da Shadow's got a fancy foah dis goil," Lice smiled to himself as the boy disappeared. "Dis is too easy," he said out loud, laughing. "Damn it's good ta be me," he smiled wickedly and tossed the cigarette to the ground, smashing it under his heel. "Tamarra, t'ings ah goin' ta change," he comforted himself with this knowledge. "Tamarra, I'se goin' ta beat Spot Conlon."

****

. : ^_^ : .

The sun rose the same way it did every morning, but there was something very different about the sky. Sounds of thunder could be heard in the distance, rumbling as if to awake the city from their slumbers. Though no rain fell from the heavens, it was promised in the future as the oppressive clouds hung over New York seeming to smother them with their moist heat. 

A gray cap lay discarded on the wooden floor, a boy who looked deader than alive sat with his back against a door-jam. Soft singing could be heard from his cracked unmoving lips. The soft melody of lyrics barely a whisper as he stared into oblivion.

__

Take cahah my baby,

Yous got someone ta love,

Youah lucky my deah baby,

T'ank da heaven's above…

The boy's tenor voice rasped from exertion, but he didn't seem to care as he passed into verse after verse of the old lullaby. His fine, dark hair hung limply around his pale face and dark rings were under his eyes. It was apparent that he hadn't slept that night and his eyes were glazed, as they seemed to not focus on anything. No one noticed the boy sitting there, for no one was up and about.

__

Ring 'round da rosy,

Pocket fulla posies,

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down…

He sang mindlessly, anything that he could remember with a tune. No reason or drive was behind his singing, it was more to simply have another sound in the room besides his own breathing. When you have something else to focus on, it is easy to ignore the problems at hand. Soft creaking of someone coming down the stairs was what roused him out of his daze. 

Standing shakily, he licked his lips and ran his hand down the front of his shirt to straighten it, then raked his fingers through his hair. The door creaked open and a dark head peaked out. When they saw that it was Spot who stood in the kitchen they started to shut the door, but Spot outstretched his hand and kept it from closing. Caught and knowing it, Emily stepped out of the stairwell, careful to avoid making eye contact.

"What are you doing here?" She asked coldly, dropping her head so her raven locks would cover her face.

"I'se -" Spot started, but his voice broke and he cleared his throat. "I'se here ta talk to yous," he swallowed heavily as she turned and looked at him.

"About what?" She seemed distant, her eyes carefully guarded, her expressions reserved, and Spot's spirits sank even lower.

"Emily, I'se so-" he started but was cut off.

"Not now Spot," Emily shook her head. "I don't want apologizes, I want an explanation," she looked like she had been crying and was trying her hardest to not do so now. Her hair was frazzled and disheveled, it didn't even look like she had bothered to brush it this morning. The dress she wore was the one she had on yesterday, and her cheeks, which normally had a rosy glow, had turned to chalk. Spot couldn't think of another time that she had looked so beautiful.

"Whot do yous wanna know?" Spot asked, completely at her mercy.

"I want to know," she started, then paused, and a change came over her. "Never mind," she shook her head. "You need to go now Spot," she said coldly.

"Whot?" Spot's sleep deprived mind couldn't understand her sudden change. "Em, please heah me out," his voice cracked from overuse, emotion, and exhaustion.

"Get out," she commanded and her eyes widened as he took a step closer. "Stay away from me," she took a step back, mirroring his every advance with a retreat of her own.

"Emily, wait," he blocked the door to the private quarters. "Just lemme talk foah a lil'," he begged, staring into her eyes. The silence was so profound you could have heard a teardrop hit the floor. "Please," he rasped.

"All right," she conceded a little warily, taking another step back almost as a precautionary measure.

"I don' knows whot happened yestahday," He started, struggling for the right words. "I don' knows whot happened da day afore eidah," Spot raked his fingers through his hair. "I ain't shuah 'bout nuttin' - but - dat night, da one on da roof," he struggled for the right words. "I knows whot happened den, an' I ain't sorry foah it," he pointed at her. "Yous," then brought his finger back to himself. "An' me," he paused. "We'se got somet'ing," he stopped, fighting the demons within himself. "An' I - I -"

"Stop!" Emily cut off his painful stuttering before the terrible proclamation could be uttered. "Just stop," she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, and Spot took the opportunity to move closer to her.

"I didn' mean ta kiss Spice last night," he whispered and she shook her head, keeping her hands over her eyes. "It jus' kinda happened, ya know?" he was close enough to reach out and touch her now. "If I'se hoyt yous I'se," he swallowed hard, nearly choking on the apology. "I'se sorry," he dropped his voice on the last word, as if afraid that someone would actually hear him apologizing to this girl.

"It isn't your fault," She murmured and Spot's hopes soared, only to crash and burn on her next words. "But you have to leave now," she dropped her hands and looked at him, gasping at his sudden closeness. Making moves to retreat, he caught her wrapping one of his arms around her waist. "Let me go," she was trembling and Spot could feel her shaking in his arms. "We can't do this Spot, you know we can't," she spoke softly, putting her hands on her chest and pushing gently, he didn't give her an inch. 

"I ain't lettin' yous go," he answered, putting his other arm around her and pulling her closer. "I nevah hoyd dat we'se not allowed ta cahah foah eachoder," he looked down at the girl he was holding.

"Spot," she started and seemed to lose her train of thought when she met his eyes. Shaking her head, she carefully diverted her green orbs from his steely ones. "We can't do this," She told him. "It isn't your fault," she cut off his words before he could pose an argument. "I can't help it, you need to go now, and," she took a long deep breath. "Don't come back," she looked up at his face, pleading with him silently. "Please," she whispered. "Just go."

Neither of them moved, Emily prayed that her words would make sense and he would see her reasoning. Spot didn't loosen his grip, as he stood stupefied, attempting to comprehend what she was trying to tell him. The only words that seemed to ring out in his mind were the three that made something inside of his harden. Don't come back. She couldn't mean that, could she? Working his jaw, he tried to find something to say, but he couldn't. So, he did what he found to come natural in this time where no words were appropriate, he kissed her.

The gentleness of their previous embrace was lost in this wildly passionate kiss. The desperation that Spot felt, the anger, the frustration, the confusion, all of these was poured into Emily through the intimate bond. The sorrow he felt, the want that consumed him, the bitter hate that ate at him, the stress of his role as leader, all of these he poured into her as he pressed his mouth feverishly against her own. 

At first, she struggled, trying to push him away, but finding his strength too great for her. Then slowly, ever so slowly, she melted against him. Holding rather than pushing, giving in rather than resisting, and Spot's hopes soared as she started to return his brazen kiss. The magnitude of the foreboding finality of this embrace proved only to elongate the desperate kiss. Hands began to roam across each other's backs, the self-loathing and torment tasted on one another's lips. Hands full of hair were grabbed; mouths were explored as they stood pressed together, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Finally, Emily broke away with a choked sob, her eyes full of tears, and her lips burning from the searing kiss. 

"Get out," she gasped, trying to regain her breath.

"Emmy, I'se -" Spot tried.

"Get out!" She yelled. "Can't you see I don't want you here?" She shouted the hateful words, as the tears began to fall. "I hate you!" She cried when he didn't respond. "I _hate_ you Spot Conlon!" She lied, trying anything to get rid of him.

"No," Spot shook his head in disbelief. "Don't say dat," he pleaded. "Yous lyin'," he rationalized.

"Damn it Spot," she spoke, her words flavored with the unusual taste of profanity. "Can't you just leave?"

"I - I'se - I don't wanna," he whispered brokenly.

"Well," Emily gathered the little that was left of her composure before she spoke. "Well, I don't want you here," she held her head high, hardening herself against the terrible betrayal that came onto his face.

After those words were spoken, Spot didn't try to say anything. He didn't move, didn't talk, and he didn't seem to even breathe. The sounds of Emily's tears were the only relief to the painful silence that ensued. If one had listened carefully, they would have been able to swear that the sound of two hearts breaking had been heard.

Stiffly, Spot moved to get his cap and cane as they lay on the floor. Firmly yanking it onto his head, he whirled on his heel and stormed out of the room much differently than the time he had walked away yesterday. There was no pride in his walk, no cocky swagger, anything but a broken man trying his hardest not to cry, because Spot Conlon didn't cry.

****

. : ^_^ : .

"I don' want yous ta knock him out or nuttin'," Shadow explained. "I jus' want yous ta rough him up a bit," he spoke to two fully-grown men. "Don' make a big show outta it, just do it on my signal, make 'im bleed, knock 'im down, but don' knock 'im out," he repeated the fact that he wanted Spot conscious. "Got it?" 

"Yeah," they muttered together, only caring for the money they had been promised. Half had already been paid, the other half was promised after the job was done.

"Da one ya want is da one dat is standin' by da gate ovah dere," Shadow pointed to the distribution center and looked down the road. 

Not many people were out this terrible morning. A thick fog had set in during the night and hadn't receded at all during the morning traffic. Outside interference didn't look like it was going to be a problem for the two assailants. The group of newsie was just now visible as they trumped down the street towards their leader. 

"Staht headin' ovah dat way," Shadow prompted. "An' remembah, he's gotta be able ta walk!" he reminded sharply then melted back into the shadows for which he was named.

The two lugs made their way over as they were told, sneering menacingly, but the boy at the gate didn't seem to notice. Everything about the way the boy held himself spoke of defeat, of non-caring, of depression to great for a lad so young, but the two goons didn't seem to notice, for if they had they would have rethought their devious task. When they came close enough that it was clear they were approaching him, Spot took notice, but it was disinterested. 

First it was just a little shoving match, but it wasn't much competition because Spot offered no resistance. This perturbed the two men for they had heard of Spot Conlon in the fighting rings, and had hoped for a good fight, perhaps this was the wrong boy. No their employer had pointed out this one directly, no one else had a cane with them, and so they continued to shove him back and forth like a rag doll. His head bobbing and whipping with every shove, his feet stumbling over each other as he took the beating without caring.

There was nothing left to live for and he knew it. He had already lost the respect of his comrades, he had lost the love of the girl for whom he cared, he had no promise of a future, no past that he wanted to remember, and the present was only a constant reminded that he was in hell. So he took the beating, he deserved it. The jeers of the two men went unheard, he didn't care about their words, and he already knew what he was. Worthless.

Just two days earlier he would have been fighting tooth and nail, but now he didn't care. Spot's heart was broken, his spirit was broken, he was no longer the cocky boy that swaggered down the streets, striking fear into the hearts of the other boys. No he was only a shadow of what he had once been, he was quickly learning what it was to be nobody.

Then the blows started coming, breaking his lip, and bruising his face, breaking his body, all going unblocked as he shut his eyes and accepted the punishment. The salty taste of his blood was a cruel reminder of his state of consciousness and then he hit the ground. Dirt going into his mouth and nose, clinging to the trails of blood that stained his face. Only then did he open his eyes to see that his two opponents had fled. That wasn't all he saw. 

The Brooklyn newsies were there, all of them standing with their faces blank in disbelief. Spot hadn't been dumb to the rumors that had been floating through there midst, and he knew now that this only proved it to them. Their fearless leader, beaten and bloody, lying on the dirt, and he hadn't even tried to fight. Then he saw the two little boys he had talked to so harshly one-day prior. Their large eyes shining with betrayal as their childhood hero proved to be nothing more than failure.

__

Failure, the word came and struck him heavily. That was all he was, a failure. _Worthless_, another accusation came. _Together you will conquer, you and her, apart you shall fall_, the bitter reminder haunted him as he pulled his broken body into a standing position. 

Blood from a cut above his eyebrow dripped into his eye, blurring his vision, but even through his fogged state of mind he could see the disgust on the faces of his followers. Worthless. They were judging him now, thinking thoughts that they wouldn't have dared to think only a few days earlier. Failure. They hated him, the friends that he never allowed himself to really have. He saw Spice, her jaw slack, her eyes wide, this hadn't been the boy she had allowed herself to be attracted to. Worthless.

The circulation bell rang, jerking the rest out of their stupor and the gates opened. They all progressed in before Spot, and he didn't even bother to enter. The monumental significance of this motion brought down the bitter truth in his mind. He was no longer the leader, this had clenched it for him, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be the leader, he didn't want that power anymore. All he wanted to do was to die. It was as though the fog that lay on city streets had seeped into his mind, hazing over his entire train of thought.

Stumbling numbly as the thunder peeled in the near distance, Spot started towards a place he hadn't been in a long time. Limping, Spot walked away from the distribution office, away from the glares and stares of his former co-workers, now subject to the piteous glances of women and the disgusted judgments of the men. Brokenly, Spot moved towards the place that promise him possible relief. 

Spot went to the Bridge.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Emily watched Spot leave. She watched him walk with his head hanging, his cane dragging at his side, everything about him speaking of defeat. She watched him as he glanced back one last time before leaving for good. Through her tears, she watched him disappear around a corner. It was only when she heard the boys and girls waking up upstairs that she moved into the private quarters to prepare for the day.

Brushing out the tangles in her hair, he thought bitterly how Spot's hands had been the instruments that had caused this mess of tangles. The yellowing bruise on the side of her face was an ugly disfiguration on what she already thought to be a terrible configuration of features. Plating her hair back into a long braid, she changed dresses, blinking back the tears as she lent over a porcelain basin to wash her face. If her father returned to find her weeping, he would become angry. 

At the thought of her father, she shuddered. If he was to return now and his breakfast weren't ready, she didn't want to think about the vast possibilities of punishments. Worthless, that was all she was. Worthless except to serve this brute that she called her father. As she worked to scrounge up a quick breakfast, she felt the tears start to run down her cheeks again unbidden.

__

Oh God, She prayed silently. _What have I done?_

****

. : ^_^ : .

After paying the brutes, Shadow made good time in making it to Queens. He found that the group was already outside waiting for him to arrive. 

"It's ready," he informed Lice. "Da newsie will be makin' it to dere spots soon an' Spot is alone," he spoke rapidly. 

"Wheah is Spot?" Lice growled.

"The last I saws, he was headin' towahds da bridge," Shadow took a deep breath in, winded from running. "Yous got da goil ta take her back?" he asked curiously.

"Nah, she's in da warehouse," Lice smiled wickedly as a rumble of thunder drowned out his menacing chuckle.

Shadow felt himself being grabbed from behind and he struggled, but it was worthless. The two apes that held him hostage were each nearly twice his size and he watched Lice make a motion with his hand. They dragged him into the warehouse, though the hallways that were constructed by the way the boxes and crates were stacked. Finally, he was in what would appear a large open room, in the center a girl with fire red hair was tied to a chair. It was Spitfire. Beside her there was another chair with several coils of rope waiting and Shadow knew they meant to tie him up similarly to Spitfires. He had been tricked.

Inwardly, he cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He knew Lice's character and reputation, he shouldn't have underestimated him. Now that he was worthless to him, Lice could do whatever he liked and it wouldn't make any difference. Spitfire looked in their direction when she heard the noises of struggling. Spitting on the floor, she scowled violently at Shadow, labeling him a traitor.

The oafs shoved Shadow down in the chair next to Spitfire, and began ruthlessly tying him to the chair. Cinching the ropes tighter than they needed to be, looping the knots securely and each of them punched him across the face, one for each side. Laughingly, they then kissed the girl in such a fashion that it made Shadow's stomach churn. They were laughing hard as the girl threw foul curse words at them as they walked away. When it was clear they were gone, Spitfire turned her attention to her new fellow prisoner.

"Yous weah a spy?" She asked bitterly.

"Yeah," Shadow admitted, no harm in that now.

"Fuck you," she growled. "You knows whot de's goin' ta do now?" And she continued even though he nodded his head. "De's goin' ta take ovah Brooklyn, an' it's youah fault," She swallowed heavily. "An' I hoyd Lice say dat de's goin' ta kill Spot," she added solemnly. 

"Whot?" Shadow exclaimed, he had heard nothing of that twist.

"Lice wonted ta kill Spot, said dat da bastahd didn' desoyve ta live," she bowed her head wearily. "An' it's all youah fault, you son o' a bitch!" She cursed him. Again and again the phrases of profanity fell from her lips, cursing him for destroying her home and her way of life until she broke off with a sob. "An' now we'se both goin' ta die," she cried, and Shadow didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything to say, because he knew the truth of her words. Chances were, that when Lice returned that night, he would kill them both.

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The sky rumbled angrily, seeming to speak of its displeasure for the happenings under its expanse. The wretch of humanity spoiling the lives of so many so young as the heavens were left to watch. The rolling black clouds tolled out their judgment as it sent lightning splashing across the dark backdrop.

All of this went unnoticed by Spot as he trudged towards the bridge. No one attempted to talk to him, to ask what was the matter, why would they? They were all strangers to the dark haired boy that moved with slow heavy steps along the strangely empty streets. Few passer-bys were seen, and even fewer carriages. The normal merchants were careful not to put out too many goods for fear of them being spoiled by the promised rain.

Stumbling along, Spot moved stupidly though the small crowd as though he had never been on the streets of New York. Trails of sweat cut down through the smears of dirt as the terrible heat made it impossible to not perspire. The salty liquid spilled into his eyes, blurring his vision as though tears filled them. 

The bridge was covered in a fog so thick it was hard to see through it. The humidity in the air was now tangible in cloud form covering the earth and he walked onto the deserted bridge as many others hurried homeward as the first drops of life giving rain began to fall. Numbly, he kept walking until he was near the center of the bridge, this is where he had stood with Frost on so many occasions. 

The memories came rushing back like a flood, every word they had ever exchanged, every kiss they had ever shared, the way that she had made him feel. In all of the passion and rapidly grown feelings, he had never once been able to tell her that he loved her, and now he had made the same mistake with Emily. 

Though he had tried, she had stopped him. She didn't want to hear it, and he didn't know how to say it. Love was the ultimate weakness, and he was already pathetically weak. Leaning on the railing of the bridge he looked down into the gray fog that swirled below him. Resting his head against the cool metal, he sucked in a much-needed breath of air. All of it was so clear now, but it was so confused at the same time.

In his mind he was already able to piece together all of the parts, how could he have been so stupid? The blackness that had been in his dreams and in his vision was what filled him now. Tormenting him, burning him, consuming his very soul. Even in this sudden clarity, he knew not how his world had spun so madly out of control.

Time passed by, he didn't even try to measure it. The justification of his death was simple but so complex. There was so much he wanted to tell everyone, so much that he had never been able to say and never would be able to. The inner-struggle ripped at his core, bringing him more pain than he had ever felt in any of the physical abuses he had stomached.

He wanted to die.

He wanted to live.

He wanted to go to Emily and wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze every last gasp of air from her body. He wanted to go to Emily and kiss her until she was trembling and weak in his arms. He wanted to go to Queens and beg of them to kill him. He wanted to go to Queens and brutally destroy their whole force. It was during this mental listing of parallels that he looked up to see a figure emerge from the thick cloud of fog. 

"Heya Spot," The tall boy greeted, and Spot knew that he had seen him before. "Remembah me?" he asked, moving closer as several other burly boys joined what seemed to be the leader.

"Who ah yous?" Spot stood to his full height, apprehension filling him, but too tired to really care.

"We'se from Queens," The first motioned around himself to the seven or so boys that escorted him. "An' we'se got somet'ing ta say ta yous," Spot now noticed as the boy moved even closer that he had two different colored eyes and Fire's words came back to him in full.

"Yous must be Lice," Spot pieced together the information from Pips and from Fire to make the assumption.

"So yous hoyd o' me?" He mocked flattery. "Well I'se goin' ta be known foah moah soon," he smiled wickedly and Spot didn't blink.

"Yous goin' ta kill me, right?" he asked sourly and Lice's smile faltered. "Go ahead," Spot spread his arms wide in defeat. "I'se goin' ta jump anyway," he knew that he had taken the wind right out of their sails.

"Yous ain't goin' ta fight?" Lice sounded genuinely disappointed.

"Ya gotta have somet'ing ta fight foah," he shrugged and Lice looked confused as the rain to sprinkle regularly now.

"Whot if I'se told ya dat I'se goin' ta take ovah Brooklyn?" Lice taunted.

"I ain't da leadah no moah," Spot lowered his arms, knowing that he was going to die and whether his arms were up or down didn't mater.

"So da mighty Spot Conlon's goin' ta go wit'out a fight," Lice sneered, playing this turn to his advantage. "It's a shame," he approached the boy. "I'se lookin' forward ta a good fight," he was now close enough to exchange blows as the rain began to fall around them, bringing down the fog with the heavy droplets. "Now all I'se gotta do is kill ya," he launched out his fist and it swiped across Spot face, the boy didn't retaliate, he didn't even flinch.

Lice had expected at least a few of his boys to protect him, hence the group he had brought to counter them, but Shadow's work had been complete. No one cared. Blow after blow, the fallen Brooklyn leader was pummeled mercilessly by the brute labeled as Lice. All of the ire had gone from his spirit, all of the desire to life vanquished. 

His blood soaked the ground along with the rain, his cane lying on the ground beside him Lice continued to beat him. Kicking at him, yelling at him to get up. When he failed to comply, Lice had two of his comrades pick him up so he could beat him. Once he had his fill, Lice told the boys to drop him and they did. 

Slumping to the ground, Spot opened his eyes, his vision was blurred causing him to see multiple images as the rain now dropped in sheets around them. A figure towered above him, but he couldn't remember who it was, but he knew that it was his enemy and that he was going to die. He welcomed death though, it was a welcome event compared to the past sixteen years of his life. In his hazed mind, he remembered turning his head around to see a glint of gold flying through the air before lights exploded in his eyes. Then, it was dark.

****

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The newsies all hurried back to the lodging house, discarding the papers that now were soaked in the summer storm. They gathered in the large boy's bunkroom, all huddling together, no one talking. The solemnity of the day was more than sobering. All of them had lived in such extreme fear and respect of the fallen Spot Conlon that now they didn't know what to feel. It was as though an essential part of their identity and way of thinking had just been ripped from their pattern of life.

The dispute of leadership wasn't an issue. Outsider had been Spot's second and therefore would now be the leader, just like it had been when Spot was in the refuge. No one questioned his ability to lead though it was clear that he was no where near the charismatic powerful leader that Spot had been. They had no idea what Queens had planned as none of the border sellers had gone out that far today, for fear of being caught in the rain.

The gloomy weather had transcended into the room and the rumbling of thunder and the crash of the lightning were the only noises. No one spoke, no one wanted to, and they all simply sat as they attempted to understand what had just happened. It wasn't until they had been sitting in the statuesque mode for near an hour that Flower looked around at the wet, depressed group and posed this question:

"Wheah's Shadow?"

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Queens was experiencing the same weather trend as Brooklyn as the torrents of rain poured mercilessly on the cheap wooden roof of the warehouse. Leaks were many as they dripped down on the miserable captive duo. They had long since given up on conversation for it would always turn to their impending doom, also they had long since ended the attempt to loose their bonds. It wasn't until a drip began to fall upon Spitfire that words were reinstated.

"Shit," she swore as the annoying drops fell on the crown of her head. 

"Whot?" Shadow asked, turning his head to look at her.

"Da damn rain is fallin' on me head," she craned her neck to the side only to make the rain fall on her shoulder and she swore again.

"Move to da side a lil'," Shadow suggested. 

"I'se tryin'," she shot back, attempting to shimmy her chair away from the annoying drip. When she succeeded, she was nearly touching Shadow's chair. Neither of them talked for awhile, the sounds of the rain pouring onto the roof the only break from the silence.

"Wait a second," Shadow thought out loud as he turned to face Spitfire. "Do yous t'ink dat yous can move so dat youah back is facin' mine?" He asked excitedly.

"Pro'ly," Spitfire answered, raising her eyebrows. "Why?"

"Cause den, yous can untie me hands an' we'se can get outta heah," He smiled broadly and Spitfire's eyes lit up for a split second before they became suspicious. 

"How can I'se trust yous?" She tested. "How can I'se know dat once I gets you free dat yous won' just leave me heah ta die?" She scowled.

"I ain't a murdaher," Shadow frowned back.

"Why don' yous untie _my_ hands?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Cause, goils ah bettah wit' dere hands," he offered and she snorted in disgust. "At dis point I really don' t'ink it mattahs who unties who," Shadow said incredulously. "Dis is ouah only chance o' gettin' outta heah, so whot's it goin' ta be?" he asked and Spitfire rolled her eyes, knowing he was right. She would just have to trust him. So with that, she began to move.

****

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Raising the cane above his head, Lice brought it down with a tremendous crash upon Spot's head. Three times he struck him as so, until he was quite sure the boy was beyond this world. Without bothering to check whether or not the job was complete, he continued to hold the cane in his hand and walked towards the group of waiting boys. His job was done, now it was time to go to meet up with the rest of his gang and go to the Brooklyn lodging house. There were some terms of war that needed to be discussed.

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The next thing Spot remembered was the extreme pain racing through his whole body. The rain still poured around him and he had no idea where he was. Every part of his body felt broken, his head was pounding, his limbs were shaking and he felt ready to vomit. The overwhelming surge of physical ailments disturbed him, and he opened his eyes to try to see where he was, he couldn't remember what happened.

When he opened his eyes he only witness a large dark blur. Confused, he blinked a few times only to find the same vision in front of him. There was no possibility that he was still dreaming for he knew better than that. It was then that the terrible sickness struck him.

"No," he croaked, his voice failing him as he tried to stand but found it impossible. He collapsed into a broken heap on the Brooklyn Bridge and he squeezed his eyes tightly closed, sure that this had to be some sort of mistake.

Again and again, he opened and shut his eyes, sure that this had to be some trick of the light. Even at night in the pouring rain, he should have been able to make out some sort of something, anything! Breathing heavily, he started to panic. Why couldn't he see? Rain poured over his body as he rolled over onto his back, trying to sit up. It was impossible and his body already was complaining terribly for the abuses it had endured over the last twenty-four hours. 

It was a sickening realization when he stared blankly into the sky, not seeing, and raindrops pelted his eyes. All of the pain faded into oblivion as he came to the terrible conclusion that had haunted his days and tormented his nights. The dreams and vision were all so clear now, that burning blackness was now part of his reality. Spot Conlon was blind.

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A/N: .:*blow her nose loudly*:. Good gravy that was possibly the most angst ridden, pathetically terrible, awful, insanely sad thing I've ever written. Well… that might be an exaggeration, but it is right up there. I feel so terrible for doing this to my Spot, but I just had to, it is what the whole friggin' story is about! I hate myself now… I don't know if I can write this story anymore without having anti-depressant medication. .:*Cries*:. Moving along, I would like to give a few shouts outs to my .:*counts on her fingers*:. Three readers! ^_^ I have three whole readers and over twenty reviews! You like me, you really like me!

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Annie: If you cried in that last chapter, you probably need a box of tissues for this one. I can't think of a single happy, redeeming part of this chapter. Man I am awful, but I hope that you won't hate me too badly….

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Ireland O'Reily: Well this is where it is going…. I want to write fluffy fiction, I want to write happy fiction, and I want to write fiction that doesn't make me cry while I write it! I know I can capture emotional turmoil, but I want to capture the fluffy happiness without making it disgustingly sappy! After I am done with this story I am going to need therapy. .:*sighs*:. This is really depressing, you and me can go get some anti-depressant drug together, and then we can finish reading this story. Thanks for the review! ^_^

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Problems: Yeah! Someone love me! .:*manages to stop crying*:. Your poor Spot? He is mine! Ha, ha! Yep, Spot was pretty much clueless, and now he is blind. Darn it! My poor blind baby, well now I might have a chance with him because he can't see what I look like! .:*suddenly sees the advantage of this plot twist, then remembers that Spot is a fictional character*:. Darn it! I have no idea how I am going to resolve this, but that is part of the adventure of writing! Thanks for your review and your interesting take on things, your reviews make me laugh. ^_^ 

Well that about does it for my three readers. When you three readers finish reading this, review me and tell me how much you hate me now! And if by some strange twist of fate, someone else decides that they actually wanted to read AND review my story, I might actually have four readers! ^_^ I love brutally honest people because I was taught that your critic is your best friend, and your supporter is your worst enemy… so beat me down!


	8. Echo in the Darkness

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, so don't sue me.

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A/N: Oh gosh, this was a really hard chapter to write after all of the things that went on in the previous one. Now with Spot blind, Emily portrayed as the heartless woman-beast, Lice set up as the ultimate villain, Emily's dad basically out of the picture, but keeping strange hours, and Spitfire and Shadow set up for their doom, we can only read to see how this turns out. I can only just sit down and type out whatever comes to see how it turns out. As I am sitting here, I know where I kind of want to go to with this story, but I have no idea where it is going to go, so I am going to shut up now and find out.

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Warning: This chapter is rated PG - 13 for language, suspense, angst, and all of the times that I just wanted to curse out loud as I wrote it.

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Chapter 8: Echo in the Darkness

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"_Before mine eyes in opposition sits grim Death_."   
-- John Milton

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The rain to fall, soaking the parched earth as the heaven's poured its torrents down in floods. No one went out on this frightful eve, no one that is except a select few. The select few were mainly those that had no where to stay, or the foes that were making their way towards the Brooklyn lodging house. Then there was the one soul who lay on his back, helpless against the forces swirling around him. His blood washed away in the heavy fallings of rain, not allowing his wounds to clot or scab. Misery and agony his only companions as he stayed there, paralyzed and having no motivation to move. Perhaps this would be the day he would die.

On the other side of the bride he would have found the Queens boys approaching the lodging house. The same lodging house that held so many potent memories inside its walls. Some of those memories were good, some of them bad, but all making up the majority of his life, his pathetic wasted life. Only one thing in the world was left that he cared about, and she had turned away, shunning him, turning her back to him when he needed her. 

There was no use trying when you had nothing to try for, and that is all that Spot Conlon had. Nothing.

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"I'se - almost - got - it," Spitfire spoke slowly and deliberately, sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, attempting to untie the knots that bound Shadow's hands. The rain still dripped through the roof, and none of the Queens newsies had returned, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be back soon. It was hard to say who actually went to Brooklyn and who just went to cause trouble elsewhere.

"Do ya t'ink de's comin' back?" Shadow asked and Spitfire let out an exasperated sigh.

"I'se tryin' ta concentrate heah," she reminded as she worked.

"Oh," Shadow remembered and was silent until a few minutes later he felt the loosening of his binds around his wrists.

"Got it!" Spitfire exclaimed readily.

"Yeah!" Shadow worked his arms so that the ropes fell to the floor and he could bring his arms around front of the chair. This new freedom was exhilarating and he automatically started to work the ropes that bound his shoulders over his head. Then the ones that held his thighs down to the chair and the ones that kept his shins bound tightly, and he was free. It was amazing how much he could accomplish when he just had his hands.

"Hey," Spitfire clamored. "Whot 'bout me?" She knew that her fellow prisoner was now free.

"Whot 'bout yous?" Shadow asked.

"Yous gotta lemme go too ya know," she reminded and Shadow walked around in front of her.

"No I'se don't," he grinned evilly. 

"Whot?" Spitfire shook her head in disbelief. "Shuah as hell ya do!" She recovered. "Get me outta heah!"

"Whot will ya gives me?" Shadow bargained.

"I'se goin' ta give yous two broken ahms ta go wit' youah two broken legs dat I'se goin' ta give ya foah bein' a spy!" She threatened, writhing madly in his chair, attempting to find a loose link. "Get me outta heah!"

"Ya know dat t'reats ain't no way ta treat da one dat might be getting' yous outta heah," he crossed his arms over his chest, hiding his mirth at the situation. "I'se say dat yous should beg," he prompted and Spitfire shot him a venomous glare.

"I untied yous damn hands, yous still be tied if it weren't foah me," she reminded. "I says dat it only right ta lemme go too," she reasoned.

"Nah, not good 'nuff," he shook his head.

"Whot do ya want me ta do, I ain't got nuttin' ta give ya," she stopped squirming. "An' if yous don' lemme go, an' de's kill me, it's goin' ta be on youah head," she tried a different approach. "Yous goin' ta boyn in hell foah dis!"

"I'se a'eady goin' ta boyn in hell," he reminded. 

"Well, if yous don' lemme go, I'se goin' ta come back as a ghost an' haunt yous foahevah," she had heard of ghosts haunting people before, and figured if nothing else, it was a pretty good shot.

"I'se a'eady got a couple o' doe's," he shrugged.

"Damn it Shadow!" her gray eyes flashed. "Lemme out a heah right now oah else I'se goin' ta fix ya so yous can't walk!" She flew off the handle, and Shadow laughed. "Now ain't da time ta be laughin' de's could be comin' back any second now," she squirmed and suddenly the game that Shadow had been playing wasn't appealing anymore. It was true that those monsters could come back at any given time, and he had already decided to free her, so without another word he moved behind her, knelt, and began untying the ropes.

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__

//I think it's going to rain, rain down,

I think it's going to rain, rain down,

I think it's going to rain, rain down,

I think it's going to rain…//

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The rain did little to comfort Emily as she sat curled in a ball in the private quarters. She knew that Spot hadn't come back, and she knew that he probably wouldn't, and it was all her fault. Though she had thought she had acted in his best interest, she couldn't have been more wrong. The feeling of failure gnawed at her stomach like an unsatisfied beast.

__

You did the right thing, she tried to comfort herself. _He needs someone better than you, someone who isn't worthless, _cringing at the reminder of her shortcomings. 

Standing, she stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, it was nearing the time that her father would come home for lunch. He hadn't come back for breakfast, but there was no telling when he would show up. Steeling herself against her tears, she moved mechanically to prepare the food until a large rumpus too her attention. The door to the lodging house slammed open and a dozen or so very large strong looking boys tramped it, soiling her clean floors. Terrified, but knowing her duty, she stepped out behind the desk.

"Can I help you?" She asked diminutively, and the whole group seemed to freeze. They were all dripping wet, and seemed to have something in mind. A tall boy with soaked brown hair stepped forward, Emily quickly noted his two toned eyes.

"We'se heah ta finish some business wit' dese newsies," he told her frankly and Emily was immediately struck by the powerful sense of this boys depravity.

"You'll want to speak with Spot Conlon, but he isn't here now," she held her head high, trying to maintain a profession business like approach.

"Nah, Spot Conlon ain't da one dat I needs ta talk to," the boy shook his head, a malicious smile twisting his lips. "I don't think no ones goin' ta be talkin' ta Spot Conlon foah a long time," he turned and looked at the group around him and they were all smiling the same sick smile.

"I don't understand," Emily said warily. "Do you want a bunk for the night?" She asked.

"Some o' us will be stayin' some won't," the leader spoke. "But now we'se jus' need ta know wheah da bunkroom is," he said and Emily was worried about Spot. What did this boy mean by his comment about Spot not talking to anyone for a long time?

"Only boarders can go into the bunkroom, sir," she explained. "If you would just tell me which ones of you will be staying here, I can show you -" she was interrupted by the leader's fist slamming down on the desk.

"I ain't intahested in da rules," he growled. "If yous don' shows us wheah ta go, wes'll find da room ouah selves," he told her in an evil tone, then he straightened and resumed his pleasantly hostile tone. "Now, ah yous goin' ta show us, oah ah we'se goin' ta havta find it ouah selves?"

Inwardly, Emily was torn. Of course it was the rule that only boarders were allowed in the bunkroom, but that rule had been broken so many times it was practically useless to argue it. Spot hadn't boarded there in months and he had been up there regularly, not to mention some of the factory friends and such. Biting her lower lip, she waved off the terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach and moved out from behind the counter. Even if these boys were up to no good, there was no point in her arguing with them, they would do what they wanted anyway.

"It's this way," she said weakly and the terrible smile returned to the boy with strange eye's face.

"T'ank you miss," he said with sugar coated sweetness laced with malice.

When she had led them up the stairs, she pointed to the door and moved to go down the stairs. Whatever confrontation which was about to incur didn't involve her and she didn't want it to. The only thing she wanted to know was what had that strange boy meant about Spot?

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Just as the last of her bindings were freed, the noise of a door creaking open was heard and Spitfire and Shadow both froze. Both hoped that it was only the wind, but the wind didn't have footsteps or voices and they looked at each other in panic. 

"Whot ah we'se goin' ta do?" Spitfire hissed.

"Come dis way!" Shadow grabbed her hand and treaded lightly towards the one opening in the large stacks of boxes. 

Ducking behind a large crate, he looked around and saw a box with a large hole in the corner, if they were lucky, the box would be empty. Yanking on her arm as the footsteps got closer, he pointed to the box and Spitfire understood. The mess of crates, boxes, and random junk kept them fairly hidden from the main pathway, but the hole of the box was in plain view if someone chose to look in that direction. 

Kneeling, Shadow motioned that Spitfire should go in front of him, his pulse was racing as the sounds of the boy's boots came closer. Just in the nick of time, Shadow was able to follow Spitfire and duck into the hole with minimal difficulty, and he pressed his back against the wall furthest from the crawl space.

Both of them were barely breathing as the boys passed, their conversation and foot steps audible as they headed on with their path. It was a startling silence when the companions reached the main circle to find both chairs empty with the rope binds lying discarded on the floor. Loud swearing was heard in the box as the two frantically searched for an idea. 

"De's gone!" One of them exclaimed.

"No shit!" the other replied.

"How'd dey get past da guard?" The first asked.

"Ya t'ink I knows?" The second yelled.

"Damn Lice is goin' ta be mad," the other one exclaimed, then the conversation got too quiet to hear.

Neither of the hidden breathed as the boys still busy in conversation passed by again. The sound of the door opening and closing was their cue to exhale deeply. Deep breathing accompanied the dripping of rain and finally Spitfire spoke.

"Do ya t'ink dey know we'se in heah?" she asked.

"I dunno, but if de's got a guard by da door, we'se in trouble," Shadow lamented quietly.

"How da hell ah we'se goin' ta get outta heah?" She asked, blinking against the darkness.

"Don' woyah," Shadow comforted. "I'se comin' up wit' a plan," he informed.

"Oh, like dats goin' ta help," she grumbled.

"At least I'se doin' somet'ing, now shaddup," he ordered and Spitfire heard him shifting away from the wall beside her.

"Wheah ah yous goin'?" she hissed and he made a noise to silence her as he crawled out of the hole again. "Get back in heah!" She ordered, but he didn't hear her whispered dictation. "Shit," she breathed.

For all she knew he was going to get the others and tell them where she was, rating her out in return for his freedom. Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she tried to think of a plan. She didn't know her way around Queens, she didn't know her way around this building, for all she knew she was in the back and the door was at the front. The door could be right next to her and she wouldn't have known.

Hearing a noise, she started and pressed her back firmly against the wall of the wooden crate and prayed to become invisible. A body blocked the dim light that filtered in through the hole. Taking a deep breath, she readied herself to fight. Someone knelt and stuck their head into the opening, and they would never know what had hit them. Lashing out, Spitfire launched her foot squarely into the face of the intruder. 

They slumped to the floor, and Spitfire looked at them hesitantly before swearing vilely at recognition. She had knocked out Shadow, and now half of his body was hanging outside of the box. Panicking, she grabbed him under the arms and tried to yank him into the box, but he was too heavy to really move that far. 

Going down to the hold, she tried to bend his legs so that they would fold into the box, but his legs were too long and his knees hit far above the edge. Biting her lip, she struggled again to pull him in, giving it her all in the cramped space where she couldn't even stand upright. Voices coming inside gave her a new fear. If they found her now, they would kill her on spot, or maybe rape her now, then kill her when Lice got back. Muttering an indistinguishable stream of curses, she gave Shadow one last pull and managed to get a good few inches inside.

Moving back down to the opening, she was now able to bend his legs into the crawl space just in time. Putting his feet to one side of the box, so they wouldn't slide out of the hole again, she froze when she heard Shadow moan rather loudly. The voices stopped talking and so did the footsteps. Shadow moaned again. Panicking, she did the only thing that she could think of, she kissed him, swallowing the noises that he would make with her own mouth.

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Lice waited until the girl was down the stairs and out of sight before opening the door into the room. An eerie hush filled the air invaded only by the creaking of the doors hinges. Thinking it strange that there was no noise in the besides the sounds of the door opening, he thought the room to be empty, but was shocked to see the majority of the borough huddled together in a painful silence. All eyes shot to the door as it opened, and Live found himself the center of attention, smiling cockily he scanned them all, seeing Fire still in bed but at least sitting up an conscious. 

"Who ah yous?" One boy asked from the floor, but Lice kept eye contact with Fire, the boy had lost what little color her had and looked like he was going to be sick.

"I'se a messengah," Lice answered tactfully, stepping into the room, the rest of the boys following him. "An' I'se got a message foah da likes o' yous," he pointed around the room and slicked back his hair with his other.

"It's you," Fire croaked from his bed, and the group's head swiveled to see their friend trembling almost uncontrollably. 

"Some o' yous might remembah dis?" Lice reached just inside the hem of his pants and began to draw out a long stick.

The room gaped as a glint of gold at it's tip shined in the lamp light, their attention had left Fire who was trying his best to remain as calm as possible. He found a sick enjoyment of the horror and shock the crossed all of the pathetic newsies' faces at the sight of their emblem of leadership. Everyone knew that whoever possessed the cane was the leader, even if it was only for a few moments, but they cane was their mark of power. Outsider's face blanched when he saw this.

"Who da hell ah yous?" Outsider commanded. "Whot ah yous doin' heah, wheah's Spot, an' wheah did yous get dat?" He pointed at the cane and then surveyed the army of dripping Goliath's behind the possessor of the cane.

"Lice," he started. "Takin' ovah," he paused, savoring the moment. "Dead," he enjoyed the way that delicious word slid over his tongue. "An' off his coahpse," he set the end of the cane on the floor and leaned on it, waiting for all of the information he had provided to sink into their minds. At first, all he saw was confusion, then the realization of the truth began to dawn on them and glances of disbelief were exchanged. 

"Yous killed Spot Conlon?" Lice turned his two toned eyes to a girl with long dark hair.

"Wit' my own hands," he sneered and a murmur ran over the group.

"Yous can't jus' come in heah an' take ovah like dis!" Protested a tall boy as he stood to his feet. "We'se Brooklyn, and we ain't goin' ta jus' let ya come in an do dis!" Agreement swept over the crowd and Lice's jaw remained set.

"Now, mosta da time, I'se agree wit'choo," he acknowledged with a nod, continuing to lean on the cane. "But yous ain't got da man powah ta fight us, an' I'se got somet'ing back home dat might jus' wanna keep yous from tryin' anyt'ing," Lice smiled cruel and the tall boy that challenged him seemed to shrink a little.

"Dat's Lice!" Fire exclaimed as if suddenly understanding. "He's da leadah from Queens!" he proclaimed and the complete understanding of magnitude of this event struck the group. This was a territory takeover.

"Whot do yous got dat would keeps us from tryin' anyt'ing?" the tall challenger asked.

"Yous might know her," Lice waited before he dropped the name, enjoying the suspense he created. "I t'ink da bitch's name is Spitfiah," he laughed out loud as the tall boy who challenged him started over to him in rage. Two other boys jumped up and restrained him.

"Whot ah yous doin' wit' her? Is she a'ight?" the restrained boy struggled.

"Yeah, she's a'ight, an' she will stay a'ight unless yous do anyt'ing," Lice threatened, straightening, his face hardening. "Who wos da new leadah afore I gots heah?" He asked and Outsider stood, approaching as he was beckoned. 

"Yous can't jus' do dis, Lice. Do yous know whot kinda trouble yous goin' ta be in when Manhattan finds out?" Outsider asked, completely torn over the situation.

"Nuttin'," Lice guessed. "An' you knows why dey ain't goin' ta do nuttin'?" he asked and Outsider shook his head. "Cause if dey do anyt'ing, Spitfiah is goin' ta die," he informed. "An' so ah yous," with a lightning quick motion, Lice had lifted the cane and smashed it on the back of Outsider's head, right across the nape. Knocking him out on the first blow.

A cry rose and a small surge of girls and boys rushed at the Queen's group for the terrible assault that had been performed in front of them so blatantly. The mammoth Queen's boys moved to form a shield around their leader fending off the group of frenzied newsies easily. A startling crash of thunder is what drew their attention away from the fighting and gave Lice the window he needed.

"A'ight ya rats," he cried out. "You all try anyt'ing like dat again and dis heah bastahd an' da bitch back in Queens will die," he threatened and the Brooklyn borough knew better than to argue.

Soon the arrangements were made as to which boys would remain in Brooklyn and which would return to Queens with Lice and their new captive. It was a strange time, the transition of power of one force to the other. Brooklyn couldn't protest, and Queens knew it, they wouldn't risk the lives of those two simply for the power. Sure they might lose their selling spots, but they would be able to sell just as easily in other places. In their fragile state of mind, it would be difficult for them to really form any real form of protest besides violence. Even then they weren't ready to face off with the Queens powerhouse. 

"Remembah," Lice reminded just before he left. "I heah any woyd 'bout yous even t'inkin' 'bout stahtin' somet'ing, youah lil' friends will be gone," with that, he turned and left, seven of the twelve boys leaving with him. More afraid than ever, the lost confused borough huddled together again in the silence of the pouring rain. It wasn't until then that they saw that Fire was silently weeping on his bed, the tears making quiet steams down his face. He wasn't the only one mapping new water courses, Ghost joined him, along with Flower and Spice, then another and another, until there was nary a dry eye in the room. 

The boys from Queens only gloated.

****

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__

//I think it's going to rain, rain down,

I think it's going to rain, rain down,

I think it's going to rain, rain down,

I think it's going to rain…//

****

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It was strangely quiet in the lodging house, especially for all of the newsies being back, but there hardly any noise that radiated into the kitchen as Emily cooked. Still no word of her father's arrival, but she was always on edge, he could come home at any time. Lately the demands had been more unpredictable and his hours out of the lodging house longer. Rarely did he come back, and it was now more odd for him to stay the night here than not. 

The business that he tended to was still secret to Emily, but when he came back home he would always have some sort of paper work, some sort of files, something to sort out. Something that Emily couldn't know about, something that she couldn't witness, something she couldn't be in the room with, alone or not. This bothered her when she dwelt upon it, it was easier just to ignore it.

Something that wasn't so easy to ignore was the way that she and Spot had parted just a few hours earlier. Her cheeks burned at the memory of the kiss, the heat that had coursed through her body returned even at the merest hint of a memory. Pressing the backs of her cold fingers against her flushed face, she closed her eyes. When she pressed her lids together, she could see it all flooding back again.

She saw what had happened when she had told him that she hated him, nothing could be farther from the truth. What she felt was… no it wasn't any good to admit it to her self now. Was it right to want someone this much? She couldn't remember a time where she had felt so torn. Everything was so confused. What she had done was best for both of them, wasn't it?

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she went back out into the entryway. A parade of still wet boys came down the stairs, the boy with two colored eyes in the lead. Moving behind the desk, she prepared to take the board of some of the boys.

"Can I help you?" She asked, not seeing Outsider as they hid his limp body among their masses.

"Five o' da boys will be stayin' heah, how much is it ta stay in dis heah dump?" The leader asked.

"It's a nickel a night to board, meals aren't provided," Emily responded mechanically. 

"Nickel a night foah five boys," The leader squinted his unusual eyes in thought. "So, how much's dat?"

"Twenty five cents, but the boys need to pay their own board. Lodging house rules," Emily clarified.

"Trust me miss," The boy said, fishing in his pocket. "Yous don' wanna ask dem foah dere boahd tanight," he didn't elaborate, but Emily sensed it would be wise to heed his words and silently took the money that he had slammed onto the counter. As he turned to go, Emily felt a sudden wave of courage.

"Wait," she said and the leader froze and turned to face her, when he met her eyes, she almost lost all of her desire to start this conversation. "What you said about Spot earlier…" she drifted and chewed on her bottom lip. "What did you mean by that?" She asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

For a moment there was silence, the front door open, letting in the sounds of the rain pounding the ground. Then a small chuckle began to come from their strange-eyed leader. The chuckle spread around the room, and then the chuckle became a laugh and the laugh a roar. Emily never got her answer because they left as they laughed, but the malicious undertone in their merriment was answer enough to her questions. Returning to the kitchen, she tried to press all other thoughts of it out of her mind.

****

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The rain continued to pour to the earth in unrelenting sheets, keeping all of those that would be out inside. The gutters were filled, the rain creating a strange music as it fell on different surfaces. Some drops pelted the ground, the roofs, the street lamps, and the streets themselves, the cracked earth soaking up the rain like a sponge. Water was everywhere, cleansing and renewing the dirty streets and byways. Unfortunately, it couldn't cleanse what was inside the hearts of the wicked as they tread down the sodden streets with their captive in tow. 

No longer unconscious, but still hazed, Outsider followed dumbly as he was nearly dragged by two brutes. The vision of the streets was limited because of the sheets of water falling from the skies, soaking the parched ground, as they slogged through the mud and puddles on the dirt roads. They kept going, and Outsider was completely unaware of where they were taking them, but he was surprised when their destination seemed to be a large warehouse. Who was he with again? It didn't matter now because everything was getting darker again, then it was black.

****

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Inside of the Queens fortress, all of the boys stood dripping and the guard from outside the door moved inside and was talking with Lice. Before he could get very far with his conversation, the boy he was talking to turned and looked directly at Outsider. The motionless boy was not surprising.

"Put dat boy wit' da oders," he ordered and the boy he had been previously engaged in conversation in looked scared suddenly.

"Suah," he squeaked, an unusual sound from such a strapping young man. "Suah, dere's somet'ing dat yous need ta know," he tried to attract the two-toned boy's attention.

"Whot do you want Aces?" Lice, not bothering to turn and the group was silent. 

"Da two kids dat yous got, dey uh…" he hesitated and Lice turned slowly.

"Dey whot, Aces?" The leader ground out through clenched teeth.

"Dey… uh… got away," Aces offered tentatively, and Lice stayed frozen. No one moved, no one breathed, while it might not have been the guard's fault that they had escaped, he was the messenger.

"I see," The boy with unusual eyes spoke softly, appearing to turn back around to the others and Aces relaxed slightly. 

When he was half way turned, the leader whirled back around and delivered a resounding punch to the boy, the sickening crunch of bone meeting bone echoing in the large building. Madder than a hornet, Lice spun back around and surveyed his group angrily, both of his eyes flashing black fire. Storming towards the large open area, he listened attentively and heard his comrades following him, and then something different that he didn't expect. It sounded almost as though someone was moaning. Stopping in mid stride, he listened again and again the sound came from somewhere in the building, he waited but it was cut off quickly this time. 

Turning around he spoke, "Did dat kid make any noise?" he pointed to the captive and all of the boys shook their heads rapidly. "Dere still heah," he murmured to himself in disbelief. "Aces!" he yelled and the sounds of pounding footsteps came from where they had just come. "Did yous evah leave youah post?" Lice asked, the wheels turning in his brain.

"No," Aces shook his head and looked intently at his leader.

"Did yous evah heah anyt'ing odd?" Lice fired.

"No," Aces shook his head again.

"Did yous evah once heah da door open from da inside?" 

"No."

"Did anyone's go inta dis heah place when yous weah on guard?"

"Yes."

"Whose?"

"Scratch an' Mutt."

"Wheah ah dey?" 

"I dunno, de's come ta tell me dat da two weah gone an' den went off ta look foah dem."

"Knife," Lice beckoned after the rapid fire questioning. "Take da rest o' da boys an' find Scratch an' Mutt," he ordered and the large boy motioned to the group around him and everyone besides those holding Outsider followed. "You twos," Lice pointed. "Go tie him an' make shuah dat he can't get away," Lice instructed. Then turning back to Aces, he continued. "Did yous evah stop ta t'ink dat de's could still be in heah?" Lice asked and Aces' eyes widened.

"Yous mean, dat de's hidin' in heah some wheah's? Aces looked shocked.

"Dats right," Lice looked around at the large boxes around him. "Yous guard da only entrance dat lets out any moah, an' if yous is tellin' da truth, dere ain't no way doe's two coulda gotten out, right?" Lice asked, testing him.

"Right," Aces gulped.

"So whot does dat mean?" Lice prompted.

"Dat de's still in heah?" Aces guessed hesitantly.

"Right," Lice nodded. "An' if de's still in heah, we'se goin' ta find dem, right?" Lice's voice was as it always was, smooth and collected, but underlined with murder.

"Right," Aces gulped and Lice patted him on the back.

"Good," he smiled with hostility. "Now get to ya post, an' if I'se find out dat yous lyin' I'se goin' ta fix ya so yous can't walk," he threatened and Aces hurried to his post.

Turning in a slow circle, Lice took in his surrounding. The moaning had come from somewhere in the area and he was going to find it, the poor fools, they didn't know who they were dealing with. A self-pleased smile played on his lips as he fiddled with the cane that he held in his hands. It was good to be him.

****

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As she pressed her full lips to his own, she knew it was a mistake. Lights flashed behind her eyes at the contact and a strange tingling shot over her entire body. The idea of falling for such a traitor had been erased from her mind the moment she had heard that he was a spy, erased from her mind, but not from her heart. 

Attraction to Shadow had been strong in the first few days she had known him, then the attraction had lead to interest, but interest had never developed because of Ghost. At the thought of her current beloved, she cringed. He was terribly over possessive and clingy. Two things that she definitely didn't want in a relationship.

The consciousness of her partner was unsure, but she didn't want him to make any more noise so she kept kissing him. It wasn't until he started to return the kiss that she began to be aware that he was fully awake and responsive. Even in this moment, she didn't draw back, and he began to sit up slowly, keeping his mouth in full contact with hers. Sitting up completely now, he cupped her face in his hands and returned the passionate kiss. 

Finally, he pulled back when he heard someone walking around. Placing a finger across her soft mouth, he motioned her to be silent. Thought the footsteps were slow, they were steady and they were definitely moving with a purpose. Moving slightly, he shifted so that he was in the darkest corner of the box and reached for Spitfire to join him. Curling as small as they possibly could become, they hid in the fairly large crate.

Both were breathing fairly heavily from the involved embrace, but they tried their hardest to regulate it. The pounding of their hearts was nearly audible, as they slammed against their rib cages, unable to control the adrenaline that coursed through the veins like molten lava. Ideas flew their head and flew out just as quickly, discarded as terrible. The feet came dangerously close, only to walk by, and Shadow let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

The musty darkness tickled at their noses and it took all of their will power not to cough or sneeze. The footsteps continued to go around the area, not leaving. Every muscle was tensed inside of that box as the feet of the solitary intruder paused in front of their hole. A third tap on the ground was curious, but they didn't investigate as the sound of two other pairs of feet joined the first.

"We'se tied him up," A low voice came.

"Yeah, da ol' Brooklyn leadah don' know whot hit him," The second chuckled.

"Very good," Shadow recognized Lice's voice. "Now get youah asses out dere an' look foah Scratch an' Mutt," he yelled and the two scurried off. When the hurried rumbling of their steps was only a memory, Lice shifted. 

Both Shadow and Spitfire's hearts skipped a beat when they heard him kneel. It was true that the darkness nearly hid them, but if he stuck his head in and looked inside the two were as good as found. The crate where they hid was probably no higher than four feet, no longer than five, and no wider than six, but it served its purpose as a hiding place. The crawl hole was nearly two feet wide and three feet high, cutting into their area to conceal themselves. Their only hope was that he wouldn't look in. 

Their hope was dashed when they saw the top of his mousy brown head poke into the hole. Both of them froze as he eased his head into the darkened area. Lice began to make out two very distinct shapes very quickly in the semi-darkness, and Spitfire reacted. Lashing out with her legs in a similar fashion as she had again Shadow, but more violently, she thrust her foot into his face several times before watching in horror as he slumped to the ground.

"Whot da hell did yous jus' do?" Shadow hissed and Spitfire looked at him then the form on the ground in front of them.

"I - I'se not shuah," she looked horrified, and Shadow was the first one to react. 

"Well dere ain't nuttin' we'se can do 'bout it," he moved towards the fallen Queens leader. "Let's get 'im in heah," he began to yank on Lice's arms, drawing him into the box. 

"Dere ain't enough room ta get 'im in heah," Spitfire protested in a loud whisper.

"We'se goin' ta go out and push da rest in heah," Shadow explained. "Now help me pull!"

With a low groan, Spitfire complied, knowing that this was the only way they were going to get out of here. Together they, slid the majority of the tall leader's upper body inside of the box, but something was keeping them from turning him the rest of the way in. Moving without much ease, Spitfire pulled at his hand which was lodging down by the entrance.

"He's got Spot's cane!" She hissed, pulling it in and trying to yank it out of his hands, but he still had a firm grip on it.

"Leave it," Shadow commanded and yanked a little harder on Lice. 

"Whot? Ah yous crazy?" She spoke a little too loudly and Shadow made a motion to be quiet. "Who evahs gots da cane gots da powah, yous can' just leave dis heah wit' him!" She protested. 

"Yeah we'se can!" Shadow growled grabbing her hand. "Get outta heah an' push da rest o' him in heah," he ordered and she gave one last yank on the cane before heading out. At this point, her neck was more important than the golden tipped cane.

She barely had enough room to make it out of the crawlspace with Lice's body blocking a good portion of the space. When she was out, she worked fast, pushing and bending the infamous leader into the place where they had been hiding. With any luck, they might get out of her alive. Antsy, she waited for her partner to climb out of the box to join her.

"Hurry up," she hissed as he started to climb out. Pausing he looked up at her and shook his head as he finished crawling out. "We'se gotta go get Spot, de's got 'im tied up back dere," She grabbed his hand and pulled before he had any idea what happened. They rushed to the large open area where they had been before not to see Spot but someone very different.

"Outsidah?" Shadow said rather loudly, in complete disbelief. "He looks like he's been knocked out an' we'se can't cahy him no wheah," Shadow reasoned, pulled on Spitfire's hand. "Let's go," he insisted and she froze.

"No, we'se can't just leave him heah," she protested, trying to go to him.

"If we'se stay heah any longah we'se goin' ta be tied up dere wit' him," Shadow reminded. "De's pro'ly keepin' him foah black mail," he yanked on her arm again. "Come on!" 

Torn, Spitfire followed, his leading, casting back several forlorn glances back to her fellow newsie, any contact with Brooklyn was a welcome change to the past day or so. Before she had any time to really contemplate it, she was at the door and Shadow had stopped.

"De's goin' ta have a guard heah," Shadow informed. "We'se goin' ta havta deal wit' him afore we'se can do anyt'ing else," he looked at her warily and she nodded. 

"I knows how ta fight," she answered with much self-assurance. 

"Good, den let's go," he opened the door and sure enough, it hit someone's back. Again, Shadow slammed open the door, smashing it against the wall of someone's back. The third time he did this, the ogre moved out of the way so he simply thrust open the door and was face to face with the large boy. 

A firm right hook caught Shadow across the jaw and Spitfire went for the place that counts. The boy might have had a strong punch, but he wasn't good at blocking, which was good for Spitfire as her foot came in firm contact with his groin. All three of them were soaking the rain that fell from the sky. A few strong kicks and blows from Spitfire, and Shadow was back into the game, battering the pained guard. For being tied up and not fed for the past twenty-four hours, Spitfire was surprisingly active. It was the anger that she felt for the violations she had endured that kept her going, and wanting revenge, no matter what the cost.

When the boy was immobilized to the point that he couldn't run after them, the duo split into the curtains of rain. On and on they ran towards Brooklyn, cutting the long way around through the most unused streets and alleyways, not wanting to run into any of Lice's goons. Their legs cramped, their lungs burned, and if it hadn't been raining, sweat would have been dripping off of their bodies. It couldn't have been even mid afternoon but it was nearly as dark as night with the thick angry black clouds. When they had run for nearly ten minutes, Spitfire slowed down and leaned against a wall, wiping the water off her face only to have it covered again almost instantly.

"We'se can't go back ta Brooklyn," she gasped for air and Shadow looked at her curiously.

"Why not?" he asked, irritated that she had stopped.

"If Lice's taken ovah da place, he's boys ah goin' ta be crawlin' all ovah dat place," she reminded, gulping down large lung-full breaths. "We'se gotta go some wheah else," she informed.

"Well wheah da hell ah we'se goin' ta go," Shadow used the stop as a chance to catch his own breath.

"Manhattan," she said. "We'se gotta go ta Manhattan." 

****

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__

//Think it's going to rain, rain down,

Think it's going to rain, rain down,

Think it's going to rain, rain down,

I think it's going to rain…//

****

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Spot lay with his back down on the bridge, unable to move, not wanting to move, everything hurt. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to blink, and it hurt to think. The only think that didn't hurt was probably his hands. They should hurt, he should have fought until every single one of his knuckles were bleeding and broken, but hadn't raised a finger. It didn't matter though now, he didn't have anything to fight for then and he didn't have anything to fight for now.

At one point he had tilted his head back and tried to drown himself in the torrents. All he had gotten for his efforts was a bought of painful coughing that had only increased his pain. The oppressive darkness that surrounded him was frightening and tears stung the backs of his blind eyes. How had it all happened so quickly? Had it been quickly? Spot had lost all track of time and he couldn't see to judge by the lights through the clouds. Was there even any light coming through the clouds? He couldn't tell. Of course he couldn't tell, he was blind. 

When he closed his eyes he could see, well he thought he could see. He could picture everything that had ever happened in his life to have it all come to this point in time. It was almost like watching a picture show as his whole life flashed across his closed eyes. Somehow it seemed to all build to this point, why couldn't he have seen it coming? 

__

For even the most devoted comrade can become your enemy whenever he chooses, The words reminded him, how many of his supposed friends had turned their backs on him? Every single word of that prophecy was so clear in his mind now, it all made so much sense. Why hadn't he stayed with Emily until she had told him what exactly was wrong? If he had would he be lying here right now, a broken man?

Now she definitely wouldn't want him. Blind, completely worthless, a complete failure, that is all he was. How could he ever make himself worth anything now? Could he make himself the great name he had been? No, he already knew that answer, he was worthless, and that was all he ever would be.

As he lay there on his back, the sound of rain the only distraction from his pain the words from his dream came to him again and again. _Don't be afraid to look behind you, _he had looked behind himself and he had seen the infliction of his pain. The last thing he had seen was the glint of gold that he now figured was his cane since he hadn't been able to feel it out beside himself. _Your pride is your weakness, _he remembered, how many times had he heard that. How many times had he been beaten down because of his pride, how many times had his pride kept him from admitting things to those he cared for? _Damn me pride,_ he thought bitterly.

__

You're a marked man Patrick, take care that you leave nothing unchecked, nothing unturned, you are the holder of your fate, and he remembered the terrible words with a set jaw. The holder of his fate in deed, he had certainly botched this one. How many ends had he left unturned, how many leads had he left unchecked? He was an idiot and he knew it. Now he was left alone on the Brooklyn Bridge,. It was disgusting, and Spot was filled with self-loathing.

As he lay there, Spot was alone, more alone than he had ever been in the memory of his life.

He was left alone, alone with the voice that taunted him in his pain.

The voice that was now nothing more than an echo in the darkness.

****

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A/N: This chapter didn't make me cry like the last two, I don't know, it just wasn't as sad for me for some reason. Who knows, maybe I am just weird. The pain wasn't as intense, but it was still there. I can't help but feel terrible for what I am doing to my poor Spotty, though…. . : * Tears * : . Oh well, moving along. Congratulations to me, the read count is up to . : * Ticks off each person of her fingers * : . five whole people! . : * Dances * : . I am amazed that five people would actually read and review this far into the story! Now to thank those wonderful people:

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Ireland O'Reily: Oops, I made you cry? . : * Secretly rejoices * : . I was numb for about two days after I wrote the last chapter. It kind of incensed me for a little while. I really need to remind myself that these stories are fiction and I have complete control over them… even if I really don't…. Yes miracles happen, but I am not quite sure if I want to have Spot get his sight back. It is all a big unknown right about now, but who knows? The muses are sure to have some secrets up their sleeves. ^_^

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Annie: Yeah, Lice is pretty easy to hate isn't he? There are always characters that you have to hate though, without them you will go through the story and find people to pick apart and hate, and that could be the character that I really want you to like. I have to protect my characters! And that involves creating the turmoil, and also creating the character that makes the turmoil, in this case it just happens to be Lice. You have to admit though, he makes a pretty wicked sweet bad guy. ^_^ Awe, I'm sorry you had a bad day at school and then came home to such a terrible update! I feel bad now, I didn't mean to make you cry! Sorry I made such a big old distraction for you! . : * Feels really bad and guilty * : . Well as you can see, Emily didn't find him, but that is all part of the idea, and I hope that this was well-done sadness and not badness. ^_^

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Kaylee: It is comforting to know that you still love me even though I made such a terribly sad chapter! Thanks for the review. ^_^

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Fearless: Ha, ha, thanks for the review and for loving my story. How dare you not review it! Go back and review all of my other chapters, now! Ha, ha, no I am just joking. I am thankful that you at least reviewed once, but you need to review every other chapter I post to make up for the past ones you haven't! -_^ Awe, Emily isn't being too bad, she is just trying to do what she thinks is right. Blame her dad for making her think she is worthless! ^_^ People you are supposed to hate: Emily's dad, and Lice. People you are supposed to like: Spot and Emily ^_^ Thanks for the review.

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Peppermint: You didn't know newsies existed before this fiction. . : * Eyes pop out of head * : . Please tell me that you didn't know newsies' fan fiction existed before this fan fiction! Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, tell me that you have seen that movie at least once! Argh! You poor deprived girl! Well if you haven't seen it, just let me tell you, this is nothing like the actual movie and the movie isn't based around Spot, but it is still definitely worth watching! A lot! Take care. ^_^

All right, well those are the few and the loved. Take cares and remember to review!


	9. Maybe

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.

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A/N: Hmm… okay, this chapter promises the following things: angst, Manhattan, and more reasons to hate Lice. ^_^ You just have to love it don't you? I just wish Emily and Spot would stop being so stupid, but the muses control me and I do what they tell me to do. Don't hate me!

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Warning: I rate this chapter PG - 13 because of all of the normal reasons, angst, profanity, violence, you know, all the things that your parents don't want you to read….

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Chapter 9: Maybe

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"_I have thee not and yet I see thee still_…"   
-- William Shakespeare

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Wringing her hands nervously, Emily sat in the kitchen. Lunch had long since come and gone and now she was starting to think about preparing dinner. No noise had been heard from the bunkroom as the rain continued to fall. The relentless torrents had died down to a steady patter of drops pelting the earth and quenching the ground. No word had come from her father, perhaps he had thought it wiser to stay where he was than to venture out into this terrible weather. 

The haunting laughter of the strange departing boys stayed with her even now as she sat looking forlornly out the window. Something about the scene had seemed so out of place as she had thought it over and over again. The boy with two different colored eyes had paid her, but something had glinted in the corner of her eye. A single flash of gold and she knew she had seen it before. Though try as she might, she wasn't able to place where she had seen it before. A glint of gold, where had she seen that before? 

Standing from her place at the window, she started making the motions towards making diner. The idea brought a sense of drudgery that she had never felt before. Something inside of her was restless, itching to get out and do something else besides sitting in the lodging house for her whole life. The strange urge had never come to her before, she had never wanted something different for herself. Always she had been content just staying where she was, but now…. It was as though she couldn't bear to stay here in the same place anymore.

But where would she go?

With that thought, all inspiration left her. She had no skills she could market, no abilities that set her apart, she knew well enough to know that she couldn't handle street life. It was a cruel cycle that had her trapped where she was. No worthless nobody couldn't make anything of themselves, and she knew it, so she went forth with the preparations for the meal. Where do you run when you have no where to go?

****

. : ^_^ : .

__

//Have you ever felt so much,

You couldn't cry,

Or hurt too much,

To bleed…?//

****

. : ^_^ : .

Spot could tell that the rain wasn't falling as hard anymore, not that it mattered. Well, maybe someone would be out now and maybe they would find him. Maybe they would kill him since he had no way of defending himself; maybe he would beg them to kill him. All he needed was a pair of strong hands to heave him over the edge and it would all be all right again. There wouldn't be any pain any more, there wouldn't be any memories, and there wouldn't be anything. He would finally be free.

Maybe his wounds were mortal, and he would die anyway. It didn't matter now, nothing did. The dark inky blackness that surrounded him was his only reality as he lay prostrate in front of the elements. Burning darkness pressing around him on all sides, choking his hopes and will to live, but he couldn't cry. It hurt too much to cry. 

Then he heard what he thought were footsteps, fast footsteps, like someone was running. At first he thought it was just his imagination, but the vibration on the ground and the noises weren't from the rain. Perhaps Lice had come back to finish the job, he hoped it was. The voice he heard next wasn't the voice of his enemy though, it was a very familiar voice of a friend.

"Shit Shadow! It's Spot!"

****

. : ^_^ : .

"Look!" Shadow exclaimed as he and Spitfire moved down the Brooklyn Bridge towards Manhattan. They had slowed their pace from a frantic sprint to a steady jog as they escaped from their danger. Though the rain had slowed, it still fell steadily and their clothes were soaked through. Their shoes were water-laden and weighed down their feet as they slogged along.

"Is dat a poyson?" Spitfire asked, but Shadow had already sped up towards the seemingly lifeless body. Easily, Spitfire caught up to him, and gasped audibly when she identified whom it was. Even through the bruises and sickening disfigurations over his face, she knew him. Something told her that she would know him anywhere.

"Shit Shadow!" She exclaimed. "It's Spot!" 

"Whot happened ta him?" Shadow asked stupidly.

"Whot do ya t'ink? Lice did dis to 'im," Spitfire said incredulously.

"Shit," Shadow muttered, kneeling beside the fallen leader.

"Is he dead?" Spitfire asked, kneeling beside him and placing her hand over Spot's heart. She was relived to feel a beat. "No he ain't dead," she answered her own question. "Ya t'ink dat he's awake?" She poked at him gently and Spot drew in a sharp breath between his teeth. Stupid girl was poking his broken ribs!

"I t'ink he's awake," Shadow told her, taking her hand to keep her from prodding any further. "Spot, can ya heah me?" He asked and Spot only groaned, unable to find the voice to make any words.

"We'se gotta get 'im some help," Spitfire thought out loud. "We'se gotta get 'im ta Manhattan," She continued her thought.

"I don' t'ink he can walk," Shadow observed and Spitfire nodded.

"We'se goin' ta havta cahahy 'im," She frowned slightly as though deep in concentration.

"Do ya t'ink dat we'se can do dat?" Shadow looked at Spot and then at Spitfire, though she was strong, she wasn't that big. It could take a lot more than she had to give to get this boy somewhere safe.

"I'se can do it, if dats whot yous mean," She turned and looked at him with a withering glance. "I may be a goil, but I'se can cahahy him jus' a good as you," She gloated and Shadow didn't bother to argue, knowing that it wouldn't be any use.

"Whot if we'se hoyt 'im moah by cahahyin' him?" Shadow posed the question and Spitfire thought for a moment before answering.

"Well, he's goin' ta die if we'se leave 'im heah, an' I don' see how dis boy can get any moah hoyt, so I says dat we'se cahahy him," She moved down to Spot's legs and posed to lift him. "So huahy up," she ordered and Shadow moved, slipping his arm under Spot's armpits, supporting his head against his chest. Spot groaned painfully and Spitfire spoke before they lifted him.

"Yous goin' ta hate us foah dis Spot, but we'se gotta move yous," she informed and then nodded at Shadow, signaling him to lift the boy at the same time as her. 

As they stood, Spot let out a noise that made him sound like he was in mortal agony. Slowly, Shadow and Spitfire began to move towards their destination, and only after ten steps, Spot lost all consciousness from the pain.

****

. : ^_^ : .

None of the newsies in the Brooklyn borough dared to say anything as their new leaders sat around aimlessly, already looking bored with their current arrangement. Fire recognized him from the group that had originally beaten him and cringed whenever he looked at him. Though he was much stronger than he had been, lack of food and water had made him delirious for a few days. Now, he looked much worse than he felt and predicted that he would be selling tomorrow if the weather cleared. Perhaps the headline would be better, but probably would simply be stating how the rain had quenched the parched ground.

All of the normally rowdy activities that should have been occurring inside from the rainy weather weren't. Usually there would be a few games of poker going on, and groups of friends busily talking, gossiping about the latest news from certain circles of friends. None of these were happening though, everyone say around in their quiet solitude, alone but they were surrounded by others. So was the lonely life of the group, all of them burning with rage, but unable to do anything about it. The helplessness of the situation was devastating. 

Maybe ridding themselves of Spot hadn't been the best idea.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Lice woke up with a pounding head and the feeling that his face had been bashed into his skull. Prying open his eyes, he blinked a few times to clear his vision and to allow his brain to compute where he was. After awhile, he slowly began to realize what had happened. The two idiots had smashed him in the face and gotten away! A surge of nearly uncontrollable rage raced through his body and he moved as quickly as he could to work his way out of the box.

"Aces!" he roared, storming towards the entrance. "Aces, get youah ass ovah heah!" he cried out and met the terrified boy halfway. "Dey gots away didn' dey?" He demanded.

"Dey - I'se - hit -" Aces sputtered and Lice took him by the shirt collar and shoved him back against the boxes. 

"Dey gots away, didn' dey?" He ground out from behind clenched teeth.

"Yes," Aces gasped and Lice loosened his grip momentarily, seeming to take mercy on him. 

That proved to be a gross misconception because Lice regained his grip and slammed Aces back against the boxes, smashing his head against the wood. Stunned, the boy slumped to the ground as Lice went to the circle to see if their one last captive was still tied securely. He was, and he was till unconscious. At least something was going right. Holding the cane in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Lice headed for the door. Maybe he could find the tramps before they got to Brooklyn, but a strange thought came over him. 

They wouldn't go back to Brooklyn if they knew that he had taken it over, the girl must have seen the cane, and she wasn't that stupid. Cursing under his breath, he mentally began to list off the places they might have run. Harlem, the Bronx, Stanton… Manhattan! Of course, Manhattan and Brooklyn had a strong alliance, especially since the strike. Swearing vilely, he pushed open the door to the raining out doors. 

Then a thought hit him. To get to Manhattan from Queens, you had to cross the Brooklyn Bridge, and unless someone else was stupid enough to be out in this weather, no one would have found Spot's body. No one that really cared enough to do anything about it that is. Finding the corpse of her fallen leader would most likely strike the girl a hard blow and Shadow hadn't known that their intent had been to kill Spot Conlon, most likely it would shock him too. 

Since they couldn't return to Brooklyn, no one there would be able to know that she had escaped and no one really cared about Shadow, he figured. Brooklyn not knowing, but assuming that he had the girl could really be much more of an advantage than he thought. If she ever did return to Brooklyn, it would be easy enough to re-capture her. This just meant one less person for Lice to worry about, one less complication and he was strangely relieved.

Maybe this was going to all work out anyway.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Spot heard the voices swirling around him and he tried to talk, but it only came out a painful moan. Everything about him hurt, and moving his jaw seemed to be a terrible impossibility. He was going to ask them to kill him, but he couldn't talk. 

__

Damn it, he thought bitterly as he felt their hands moved around him. They were going to try and help him. The slightest jarring of his body was excruciating, and as they moved step by step, every jostle or bump made his fibers scream out in agony. Letting out a loud groan, Spot remembered being swallowed in a different kind of darkness. The kind of darkness that brings momentary relief, before the nightmares overthrow it.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Shadow and Spitfire still moved slowly even after Spot passed out. The longer they carried him, the heavier he seemed to get, but neither one complained. It was a few more miles to the lodging house when the muscles in their arms started burning like fire, but neither one complained. Maybe their arms would fall off before they got there. The inner-hatred towards the fiends that had done this burned stronger than the pain in their arms, and was what fueled them onward. On the verge of collapse the climbed the stairs to the Manhattan lodging house as the rain began to recede.

"Hey Kloppman!" Spitfire yelled. "Open da doah! It's Brooklyn!" She called out, not wanting to put Spot down to open the door, unsure if she could lift him again.

At first the door only cracked open, then swung open as the old man recognized them. 

"Come in! Come in!" he waved at them as the trudged inside, dripping wet and tracking mud on the floors. "Is that Spot?" He asked dumbly, staring at the boy in their arms.

"Yea, ya gots a place we'se can put 'im?" Shadow asked, eager to put Spot down.

"Upstairs, follow me, upstairs," Kloppman repeated himself as he began to ascend the stairs. "Jack! Mush! Get down here!" The old man called as they climbed, and almost automatically, the two heads appeared at the top of the stairs. 

Both of their eyes grew as wide as saucers as they saw what appeared to be a bloody and beaten Spot carried by two soaking wet comrades. By the time they could react, Kloppman, Shadow, Spot, and Spitfire were all almost at the top. Without a word, they moved down to take their fallen ally from the two weary travelers. Once the weight was free from her arms, Spitfire leaned back against the wall, slowly sliding to the ground and cupping her face in her hands. Shadow knelt beside her to make sure she was all right.

Meanwhile, the group was all crowding around Spot as Jack and Mush carried him to a bunk and lay him down. The buzz of questions fell on dead ears as Shadow devoted his attention to the shaking Spitfire and as Spot was unconscious and thus unable to answer the inquiries. Finally, Jack was able to attain some order in the group, quieting them to a dull murmur. Then he got the attention of Shadow and Spitfire and called them over. Shakily, Spitfire stood, with the assistance of Shadow and the look that the boy gave her let all of the Manhattan borough know exactly how he felt for her.

"Whot's dis all 'bout?" Jack asked, pointing to Spot.

"Queens -" Spitfire started but her voice cracked, the hours of keeping up her brave façade breaking under the harsh realities that she was now just beginning to realize. "Queens did dis," she held her head high and answered strongly. "Dey took ovah Brooklyn, an' de's got Outsidah in dere borough ta keep evah one undah control," She explained, leaning on the arm that Shadow offered her.

"Lice is da one dat did dis ta Spot," Shadow added. "I'se can almost promise yous dat," he looked at the fallen Brooklyn leader and cringed with guilt. "He wos tryin' ta kill 'im, but I guess dat he jus' didn' get da job done dis time," he shrugged and then wrapped an arm around Spitfire's trembling shoulders.

"So Queens took ovah Brooklyn?" Jack asked, startled. 

"Yeah," Spitfire nodded solemnly. "Lice 'as Spot's cane," at this, all other questions about leadership dispute flew from Jack's mind. 

"An' whot's dis 'bout Outsidah?" Jack continued to inquire.

"De's got 'im back at da Queens' borough, de's keepin' 'im so dat none o' da Brooklyn newsies will try ta fight," Shadow set his jaw firmly.

"Who ah yous?" Mush asked then, pointing to Shadow and the boy realized that they were going to have no idea that he was. Gauging by the fire burning behind the boys' eyes, he reasoned that it wouldn't be in his best interest to inform them of his part in all of this. So he simply told them his name. Spitfire said nothing.

"Is dere anyt'ing we'se can do foah Spot?" Spitfire asked and all eyes shifted to the afflicted legend on the bunk. It was apparent that there were things that needed to be fixed that they didn't have the knowledge to tend to. 

"I knows a guy," Race piped in. "Got a couple yeahs o' med. school undah his belt," he took the customary cigar from his mouth and looked around the room. "He ain't allowed ta charge nuttin' foah his soyvaces cause he ain't got no license ta be a doctah 'round heah," Race took a long drag before continuing. "Plus da bum owes me foah erasin' a _lil'_ racin' problem dat he had," Race said the world little as such that anyone who heard knew that the problem had been anything but small.

"An' wheah is he?" Itey asked curiously. 

"I gots his cahd 'round heah some wheahs," Race answered absently, waving his cigar around in the air.

"Well go gets it!" Jack exclaimed and his comrade strutted over to the small nightstand where he stashed his things. Jack turned to the two that were waiting impatiently and gave a small smile, trying to explain and excuse Race's slow behavior.

"He an' Spot ain't always had da best relationship," he informed and that was all the two needed to know. They were all relatively quite as they waiting for Race. Holding a professional looking card, Race held it in one hand, his cigar in the other as he squinted at the paper. Moving it closer than farther away from his face as he seemed to be finding the perfect angle at which to read it, Race stopped pumping his arm and read:

"Christophah P. Oyvin," he started, speaking out boldly. "578 East 57th street," he over enunciated every word. "Apahtment numbah 12 C," He pretended to be offended when Jack ripped the card from his hands and started scanning it himself. "Manhattan," Race added finally before turning the main attention of his mouth to enjoying his cigar.

"Swifty," Jack beckoned, still looking at the card. "Take dis," he handed it to him. "Sounds like dis place is goin' ta offa thoid avenue," without another word, the spry boy was off down the stairs and out the door into the rain outside.

"Ya t'ink dis guy'll be able ta help Spot?" Shadow asked, still holding Spitfire close.

"Maybe," Jack muttered and looked at his ally. "Maybe," he repeated as if to assure himself.

The fact was that this Christopher P. Ervin might be their friend's last chance.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Afternoon came and went and the rain continued to fall. Three men huddled upstairs in a small room spoke in hurried hushed tones. All of them looked exhausted. Their clean-shaven faces had long since grown a five o'clock shadow. Red rimmed, bloodshot eyes quickly darted around from one to the other as the conversation remained heated after what had probably been hours. None of them had really noticed the rain, or had they noticed the fact that they had almost been debating for a day without break.

"There's too many risks, too many unknowns," a small man with a handlebar mustache and bad toupee argued. 

"We aren't going to be able to accomplish anything without risk, Lindstrom!" An extremely large man pounded his fist on the table.

"We aren't ready, we need more time, more time, this isn't safe. There are so many things that could go wrong," The small man, now labeled as Lindstrom continued to protest.

"That's our job, things can go wrong," growled a sturdy man with a heavy Irish brogue. 

"I don't like it, I don't like it one bit," Lindstrom continued to mutter.

"We don't have a lot of time to get this done, men," the extremely large man reminded.

"People are going to get hurt, we can't help that," the Irish man added.

"I'm sure there is a way that we can do it without having anyone be hurt," Lindstrom continued to insist.

"You're going to be the one getting hurt if you don't quit your sniveling," the Irish man growled and the extremely large man gave him a warning glance.

"We have to stay calm about this," The extremely large man coached.

"We have to take action!" The Irish man roared.

"We have to have a better plan!" Lindstrom cried back.

"We have to make a choice!" The extremely large man added his two cents before continuing. "We are going to do this in exactly four weeks," he decided for his co-workers. "We can work out the details until then, but no more changing the date! The more time we waste, the harder it is going to be and the more people will get hurt," he looked back and forth between the two other men. "All right?" he asked and when neither responded, he repeated the question, summoning a grumble out of each of them.

"Are we done with this now?" The Irish man asked.

"Yes," Lindstrom decided. "When shall we meet again?" He asked. 

"Two days from now, the warehouse," The extremely large man set the date for the second time that night.

"Fine," The Irish man and Lindstrom agreed simultaneously. 

Then one by one, the men exited from the building, each taking turns and waiting for the other to disappear for some time. Finally all three had left the building, going on with their lives whatever they might be. Two of the men went to destinations unknown to us, but one of them went to a place known to us very well. A place that is even very familiar to some. Walking down the rain-laden streets, this man set a direct course to the Brooklyn Newsie Lodging House.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Dinner was just ready when the door burst open on the Brooklyn Lodging House. Emily had just been putting the piping hot food onto a plate when her father came tamping into the kitchen, trudging mud and rain onto her clean floors. Whatever had kept him away from home had obviously not made him very happy.

Knowing better than to ask about where he had been, Emily moved into the side room where the table was kept and placed the plate in front of the chair she knew her father liked. Taking a match from the pocket of her apron, she lit the lantern in the middle of the table, blew out the match, and replaced the tall glass chimney over the flame. As she moved out of the room, her father called her back.

"Yes da?" She asked, preparing herself for some form of abuse.

"Get yourself some food and come in here, I have some questions for you," he instructed, digging into his food and Emily was stunned, but obeyed. What could he possibly want to know? Had he found out about Spot? If he had, she didn't want to imagine the beating she would have to sustain.

Placing a modest helping of food onto her plate, she fetched some utensils and joined her father at the small table. For awhile he didn't speak and Emily didn't press conversation. Everything inside of her burned with the accusations she was sure she was going to hear. Maybe her father had killed Spot, maybe that is what he wanted to tell her before he killed her too. Maybe he was giving her the dignity of a last meal before slaying her with his own hands.

"Emily, how old are you?" Her father asked suddenly and Emily nearly dropped her fork, but managed to grip it in her trembling hands.

"Sixteen, da," she answered obediently.

"Really, I thought you were older, but no matter," he brushed off the subject, and took another mouthful of food.

__

What does my age have to do with anything? She wondered, pushing at the food on her plate with her fork.

"Sixteen isn't young you know," her father informed and she simply nodded. "I have some news for you," he told her bluntly.

"What is it, da?" She asked, not enjoying the tone in his voice and she looked at him expectantly. 

"It's all been arranged, there isn't any way to get out of it now," he almost seemed to be trying to comfort her, brace her for the news. Inside of her chest, something constricted as her heart rate escalated.

"What is arranged, da?" She gripped the tablecloth hanging over the side of the table until it became wrinkled in her right hold.

"Emily," he set down his fork and looked at her straight in the eyes. "You will be getting married in four weeks," he told her. "You'll need to start packing your things right away."

****

. : ^_^ : .

Swifty cut through street after street, running, dodging, moving as quickly as possible as he was known for. Thought he had left the card back at the lodging house, the address was burned in his mind and he knew exactly where he was going. Third Avenue was such a large street it was hard to miss, the side streets such as East 57th were the harder things to find. With so many of them poorly marked and some even mislabeled, it was hard for him to discern between them sometimes. 

Finally, he came to a building with the crude numbers 578 hanging in their lackluster splendor. Just his luck, it appeared to be an apartment building of some sort. Maybe this day would look up for him after all. Charging inside he looked for 12 C. Up three flights of stairs, he ran and found level C then headed down the hallways. While this building wasn't tenement qualities, it wasn't exactly the Ritz. Walking down the hallways, Swifty dripped on the wooden planks as he read the numbers on each door until he found the one-labeled 12. Tentatively, he knocked. The door opened.

"Mr. Oyvin?" Swifty asked, doffing his hat and wringing it in his hands, sending more water to the floor.

"I am he," the middle aged man said from the door. "What can I do for you?" he asked, carefully staying inside of his apartment, not fully opening the door unto a stranger.

"You knows Racetrack?" Swifty asked. "Shoyt Italian kid?" He clarified. "He says he knows ya from racin' an' dat yous got some doctahin' undah youah belt," he babbled on before the man could shut the door. "An' me friend got beat bad suah, real bad, an' he's goin' ta die if he don' get no help an' we ain't got no wheah else ta go," Swifty begged. Knowing that if he didn't get the doctor, somehow all of the blame was going to be transferred onto his shoulders. "Can you's help me, please?" he added the please almost as an after thought, manners were a rarity among the newsies.

"So you're a newsie?" Christopher P. Ervin asked curiously, raising his brown eyebrows. "How bad is your friend?" he lowered his eyebrows quickly into a scowl.

"Bad," Swifty didn't know the extent of his injuries, but knew that they were many and that they could be deadly if not treated correctly. "We ain't got much money, but wes'll find somet'ing ta give ya Mr. Oyvin, I'se sweah in on me muddah's grave," he pleaded earnestly. "Please," he added again and with that word, something softened in Mr. Ervin's steely eyes.

"Let me get my things," he said firmly and shut the door, leaving Swifty waiting in the halls. It was a few minutes before he came out again, but this time he had his coat on, a black bag at his side, and a hat pulled firmly over his head. "Where to?" He asked, and Swifty led the way.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Along with Consciousness came the pain of awakening. Everything all over his body hurt as Spot woke. Though he couldn't feel the rain pounding on him anymore, he felt that he was still soaked. The pain was so intense that he couldn't find the will to form any words for a long time thought he heard voices swirling around him. 

__

Wheah da hell am I? He wondered silently, opening his heavy eyes and finding that he still could see nothing. The realization was harsh and he closed them again quickly, not wanting the reminder of his disability. 

"He's awake!" A voice exclaimed far too loudly for his pounding head. The truth was that someone could have whispered and it would be too loud for him. At the boy's proclamation, the whole room seemed to fly with excited voices and hurried speech, Spot wanted to yell at them all to shut up. The idiots, the morons, couldn't they see that he was trying to die here?

"Spot," he heard a voice say his name, but it sounded very far away. "Spot can you hear me?" it asked and he groaned in response. "Spot, are you all right?" The voice asked and Spot wondered if he didn't look as bad as he felt. If he did, that was probably the stupidest question ever asked. Where was your voice when you needed to give someone a verbal beating they would never forget?

Frustrated, he groaned again, trying to find the ability to speak, he wanted to know where he was. Why didn't he recognize the voice that was talking to him? Why didn't he know where he was? Why wasn't he on the Bridge, dying? Oh yes, he remembered now, Shadow and Spitfire had found him and brought him here. Wait, but where was here? Swearing mentally, he cursed everything he could think of in the world, anything from people to the plants that he had never really thought about before. He cursed the rain, he cursed the day he was born, he cursed the city, and he cursed his friends, his enemies, everyone and everything, including Frost and Emily.

"Spot, I need you to open your eyes," The voice spoke again and he obeyed. Even though it hurt to do so, he could accommodate them, couldn't he? 

When he managed to pry open his eyes lids, he heard someone making humming noises along the lines of, 'uh-huh,' and, 'hmm,' and his favorite, 'mmm.' The hum where the person made a long series of 'm's rise and fall with the tone of their voice as though they had discovered some great secret.

"Spot can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?" The voice asked and Spot parted his cracked lips painfully. Hissing as he drew in a breath, he tried to speak without moving his jaw or lips. Though his tongue had been cut by the multiple times his teeth had smashed down on it, it was practically the only part of his body that function without complete agony. 

"No," he managed after a long pause.

"Why not?" The voice asked.

"Cause," he lisped. "I can' thee," he spoke painfully slow.

"Has he always had his eyesight?" The voice asked someone in the room and they answered.

"Yeah, Spot heah's always been able ta see poity good," Spot recognized the voice as his ally, Jack Kelly.

"Spot, did you suffer any blows to the head during this fight?" The voice asked him and Spot wanted to sit up and yell at this person. How completely dense could he be? Right now his head felt like a ripe melon ready to explode, and he was asking him if he had suffered any blows to the head? All he had to do was look at his face, he had multiple cuts, bruises, and swelling covering it. Who was this wise guy anyway? 

"Yea," Spot managed, unable to rant as his condition prevented him from speaking very much.

"I might have bad news for you my boy," The voice informed him solemnly. "I do believe that you are blind," he said and the whole room gasped and then went to a deadly hush. 

"No thit," Spot swore even though it pained him to do so.

"Now this could just be temporary, but I don't think that it is," the voice informed. "Now there are a few options here," he seemed to not just be speaking to Spot, but to the whole group. "I didn't graduate medical school, but I only had one semester to go. During my time there I studied under a man who was obsessed with the workings of the eye," he continued to weave his tale. "Basically, he had a surgery that he was trying to perfect where blind people, under certain circumstances, could be _healed _by this procedure," he continued. "I think that the possible condition your friend is suffering from is a blood clot caused by the blows to his head, and the blood clot is causing pressure on certain parts of the eyes or the brain, and it is keeping him from seeing," he made it more clear.

"Cut to da chase doc," Jack interrupted. "We'se ain't inta all da fancy talk," he informed in his normal fashion. "Whot's it goin' ta take ta do dis t'ing ta fix Spot?" 

"I have some connections in the medical world, and I could get him the operation for free if your friend is willing to partake in the procedure," The voice kept talking. "His volunteering would be a great help to the medical community, but…" the voice drifted.

"But whot?" Jack asked.

"But there has been very few of these operations preformed," the voice told him. "None of them has been successful," He sounded hesitant.

"Whot do ya mean by successful, ya mean dey still couldn't see aftah da opahations?" Jack asked.

"I mean, that all of the people this surgery has been attempted on, have during the surgery," A hush fell over the room.

"Do it," Spot rasped with his lisp.

"Whot did you say?" The voice asked.

"Do it," Spot repeated painfully.

"You know that we aren't sure if your condition can even be treated with this - "

"Do it," Spot repeated.

"You could die," the voice said again.

"Do it," Spot repeated. _It ain't like I got anyt'ing ta live foah anyway,_ he thought bitterly.

Quickly after this exchange, the voice left and didn't come back.

****

. : ^_^ : .

Christopher P. Ervin walked over to Jack after Spot had given him the consent to perform the surgery. 

"You seem to be in charge around here," he said jokingly and Jack cracked a small smile. "There won't be any fee," he hesitated. "Does your friend have any family?" Christopher asked.

"No," Jack answered hurriedly. "No he don't," he amended his quick reply with something a little more tactful. "But whot you weah sayin' 'bout all da oder people dyin', dere is still a chance dat Spot could make it t'rough?" He asked.

"Maybe," Christopher answered. "Just maybe."

****

. : ^_^ : .

A/N: I know I said that I would have this posted on Sunday, but there has been some things happening out of my control… Bah humbug, oh well, it is over now. So I apologize for the stupid chapter, the stupid length, and the stupid delay on the update. I bet you weren't expecting that plot twist were you? Moving along, for anyone who cares, I'm sorry and the update on **Frostbitten** will be coming as soon as I can get it all figured out. I'm sorry, I've got problems. Ha, ha, but which one of us don't? Well, here for all of those lovely other people with problems, here are a few lovely shout outs.

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Ireland O'Reily: Yeah, Spitfire rocked my socks in the last chapter. I hope this one wasn't too big of a let down. I am kind of in the middle of a lot of things right now and I am just trying to get things posted, so I apologize for the lameness and shortness of this late update. Emily and Spot really are pathetic aren't they? I personally would rather slap them…. But thanks for your kind words and your faithful reviews!

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Fearless: !! is that a good !! or a bad !!? I am confused!

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Annie: Ha, ha, this gets you through school? Well I am flattered. Yea, my brother would cheer for Lice too! Argh! And he would have laughed when Spot got hurt, I just know he would! . : * Growl * : . Anyway, Shadow and Spitfire as a couple, well, I had kind of been hinting at it in previous chapters, but I never thought I would act on it. Who knows, I kind of like it. Spot and Emily didn't get together in this chapter, did they? . : * Tear * : . Don't chew your nails! That is bad! Anyway, tell Stan that to chill out! He sounds like a major case for a brother. Well thanks for reviews! Take care.

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Kaylee: I got Racetrack in this chapter and there is no girl in life? Are ya happy? ^_^ Well I hope so, thanks for the faithful reviews! ^_^

Woohoo! Reader count is now up to… errr… wait… **down** to . : * 4 readers * : . Phooey! Anyway, take care and review! If you have read this far into the story, you might as well try it out and click the little button down in the corner. ^_^


	10. Author's Note

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A/N: This is a conversation that I have just been having with my muses, hopefully it will explain the delay of the chapter. 

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Whot da hell woman? Yous got me blind an' bein' cahahied places?

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Raven: Don't look at me! You are the guys that tell me what to do!

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Emily: Well I sure didn't ask to be engaged this some stupid guy, I don't even know where my Spot is right now.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Youah Spot? You told me off remembah?

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Emily: Oh yeah, but I love you anyway.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: You do?

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Emily: Yes.

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Spot!Muse: Oh, well, we ain't goin' ta woyk out anyways. Dis Raven goil shoah likes ta pick on me.

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Raven: Hey, I never said you two wouldn't work out in the end.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Well you shuah ain't givin' me much hope. If I'se could see I would soak yous.

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Raven: Hey now, I am the author, no soaking the author.

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Shadow!Muse: Have any of yous seen Spitfiah 'round heah?

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Why do yous wanna see Spitfiah?

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Shadow!Muse: Cause, we'se gotta talk.

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Spitfire!Muse: Heah I'se am, whot ya wanna talk 'bout?

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Shadow!Muse: Who needs ta talk? . : * Grabs Spitfire and starts making out with her * : .

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Raven: Oh gross, I bet no one else's stupid muses have hormone issues….

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Blind!Spot!Muse: We don' have no issues, whot da hell is goin' on 'round heah? Can't no one tell da blind guy?

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Jack!Muse: . : * Enters, blinks when he sees Spitfire and Shadow making out * : . Is dere somet'ing I'se should know 'bout dese two? . : * Points to the couple * : .

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Raven: . : * Vanishes the couple * : . No, Jack. 

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Race!Muse: I bets alla yous dat dey end up togeddah at da end o' da next chaptah, double oah nuttin'.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Who ends up togeddah? 

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Raven: We won't have any betting on the plot line Race, it puts too much pressure on me.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Bettin' on who?

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Race!Muse: Aw, but da pressuah's whot makes it fun.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Whot ah yous talkin' bout?

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Raven: You've never had a million warring muses in your head fighting for dominance over the story. Betting would only make it worse.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Why would yous be bettin'? Jack whot ah dey talkin' 'bout?

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Jack!Muse: Don' ask me, I'se jus' heah ta look good.

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Race!Muse: I bet yous jus' don' want us ta have no fun….

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Raven: . : * Makes Shadow and Spitfire come back, still kissing * : . It looks like they are having fun to me. . : * Re-vanishes the pair * : .

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Whot ah dey talkin' 'bout Emily? Who's havin' fun?

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Emily: Don't ask me, I am just here for the angst filled romance part of the story. I really have no brains and no say in anything at all.

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Race!Muse: So why do dey getta have fun? Why don' we'se getta have fun?

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Raven: You want a girl to make out with?

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Make out? Whot did I miss?

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Race!Muse: Shuah!

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Raven: . : * Rolls eyes in disgust * : .

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Jack!Muse: If yous don' needs me up heah, I t'ink I'se goin' ta go look at my handsome self in a mirrah.

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Raven: No Jack, you stay, I might need you later.

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Jack!Muse: . : * Whines * : . But I wanna look at meself in a mirrah!

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Race!Muse: I betcha dat Jack couldn't spend one day wit'out lookin' in a mirrah.

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Raven: Race, we've already talked about the no betting rule

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Will someone tell me whot's goin' on?

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Raven: Hold on Spot. . : * Dig in her purse and pulls out a compact * : . Here Jack, look in this mirror.

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Jack!Muse: . : * Snatches the mirror and does a quick once over of his face before settling into a deeper examination * : .

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Race!Muse: I still don' see why I'se can't bet on nuttin'. Whot am I'se supposed ta do foah fun?

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Raven: I don't know, why don't you get a hobby.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: If someone don' tell me whot's goin' on, I'se goin' ta soak yous all!

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Race!Muse: Hobby? Bettin' is me hobby!

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Raven: Hold on Race, you can't soak us Spot, you are blind and all beaten up.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Den Is'll smack you wit' my cane!

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Raven: You're cane is gone now Spot, now Race -

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Blind!Spot!Muse: GONE?!

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Raven: . : * Rolls her eyes * : . Yes Spot, Lice has it.

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Race!Muse: Lice? Ya mean like da leadah o' Queens?

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Raven: Yes, Race. Like the leader of Queens. 

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Jack!Muse: . : * Pauses from his inspection * : . Do my eyebrows look uneven ta yous?

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Youah eyebrows? Who cahahs 'bout youah damn eyebrows! My enemy has me bloody cane an' I'se blind!

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Jack!Muse: . : * Looks confused * : . Youah blind?

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Raven: . : * Frustrated Sigh * : . Yes Jack, Spot is blind. Remember the nice doctor came and saw him in the last chapter?

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Christopher P. Ervin: . : * Enters at the sound of his name * : . Somebody call me?

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Race!Muse: I betcha dat dis doctah heah is goin' ta kill Spot.

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Raven: RACE! 

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Race!Muse: What?

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Whoa, who's goin' ta kill me?

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Raven: No one is going to kill you.

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Jack!Muse: . : * Blinks a few times * : . Spot's blind?

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Raven: . : * Bangs her head against the wall * : .

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Christopher P. Ervin: Don't do that! . : * Stops Raven * : . Now look at that nasty cut, we're going to have to fix that.

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Raven: Don't touch me!

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Emily: I'm sure he is only trying to help you, Raven….

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Raven: Who asked you? No one even likes you! Why are you here? I don't need you right now! . : * Vanishes Emily * : . 

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Race!Muse: . : * To Jack * : . I betcha dat she foahgot ta take her meds again.

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Raven: RACE!!

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Race!Muse: . : * To Jack again * : . See, I toldja she foahgot her meds.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Does anybody know whot's goin' on?

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Raven: . : * Practices her breathing exercises, trying to calm down * : .

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Christopher P. Ervin: Why do you always type out my full name?

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Blink!Muse: . : * Enters * : . Anybody seen me good eye-patch?

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Raven: . : * Stops her exercises * : .You have more than one?

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Blink!Muse: Yeah, dere is da one I use foah sellin' papes an' den dere is da one dat I use foah dates an' stuff.

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Raven: Wait, are you even a part of this story?

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Blink!Muse: Well, no not really.

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Raven: . : * Vanishes Blink!Muse * : .

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Whot ah yous all talkin' 'bout?

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Raven: Shut up Spot.

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Yous can't tell me ta shaddup!

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Raven: Why not?

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Race!Muse: . : * To Christopher P. Ervin * : . I betcha she socks Spot.

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Raven: . : * Turns bright red and charges at Race!Muse * : .

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Race!Muse: Dats my cue ta put an' egg in me shoe an beat it! . : * Vanishes himself just as Raven makes a leap for a flying tackle * : .

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Raven: . : * Screams as she crashes to the floor * : . Ouch! Race! You get back here right now and fight me like a man!

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Whot? Wheah did Race go? Fight?

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Christopher P. Ervin: . : * Trying to help Raven to her feet * : . That's a nasty scrape, let me look at that.

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Raven: NO! . : * Vanishes Christopher P. Ervin * : .

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Blind!Spot!Muse: Someone wanna tell me whot da hell is goin' on!?

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Raven: No Spot!

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Jack!Muse: Ah yous shuah dat my eyebrows ain't uneven?

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Raven: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! . : * Grabs her compact * : . Give me that and get out of here! . : * Vanishes Blind!Spot!Muse and Jack!Muse * : .

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A/N: Well that is sort of what is happening in my mind. I am not sure if I want to finish this story. I am not really having writers block, my muses just are on strike. Well, don't bother reviewing, this is pathetic, I am pathetic, this story is pathetic. Man, this wasn't even funny. Why can't I be funny? Well, I will hopefully have a new chapter by this weekend at the latest. I just thought I would let you know I wasn't dead and possibly this was a nice break from the normal depressing stuff. Or maybe it was annoying and now you probably hate me. Oh well, I will add you all to the list of people that hate me. If I decide to continued this stupid story, I do promise I will try to post a new chapter soon… if….


	11. Say A Prayer

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, no infringement is intended, so don't sue me.

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A/N: AGH! I hate this story! Stupid plot, stupid characters, stupid authoress, stupid everything, man I am bad at this. I think I just might quit. I can't believe there are ten chapters of this drivel, I am ashamed.

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Warning: Besides the fact that this chapter sucks… I'd say it's about PG, maybe PG - 13.

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Chapter 10: Say A Prayer

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"_Closed his eyes in endless night…._"   
--Thomas Gray

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"Married?" Emily almost choked on a bite of food.

"Yes," her father said roughly and Emily set down her fork, not having an appetite anymore.

"Why?" She asked quietly. 

"Because, you're getting older and this is no place for you," he refused to make eye contact with he continued to shovel his food into his mouth. "It's all been arranged," he continued.

"If I may," she started hesitantly. "Who will I be marrying?" She felt bile rising in her throat.

"His name is Arthur Van-Morris," her father said. "He's a little older than you, but that doesn't matter," he shook his head as he spoke.

"How much older?" she blinked back the tears that were stinging her eyes.

"How much?" her father's head shot up and looked at her before he looked back down at the plate and muttered something under his breath.

"Excuse me?" Emily questioned politely.

"I think he's thirty or so," her father mumbled and Emily sat there dumbly for a time, letting the entirety information sink in.

"Pardon me," She pushed her chair back from the table and picked up her plate. Numbly, she moved into the kitchen and began to clean up the mess from dinner. Every thing was as though she was in a haze and she felt sick to her stomach, but what could she do?

She had no where to run, no where to turn to, and no one that cared. Spot cared. Though she knew this it brought her little pleasure, it only brought her pain. For she was engaged now to a man she had never met, a man she didn't love, and in four weeks she would become Mrs. Arthur Van-Morris. Blinking back the tears, she couldn't help but wonder where Spot was.

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//Come to me,

The only, 

Broken hearted loser,

That you'll ever need…//

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Outside, the rain had finally stopped. The angry clouds overhead were clearing, showing the expanse of night sky. The stars sparkled with an enviable merriment, which seemed out of place in the moment. It was surprisingly chilly out on the roof of the Manhattan lodging house as the intense summer heat had faded into the wet night. The coolness in the air had done little to keep a girl with a shock of red hair from venturing out onto the roof's flat surface.

Spitfire stood alone up on the roof, not knowing why she had searched out the solitude. The doctor was still downstairs in the bunkroom with all of the newsies and she couldn't stay down there anymore. The few days had been hard and she needed release. Wrapping her arms around her torso she closed her eyes as the burning tears rose.

The first of many tears slipped down the soft curve of her cheek before it was followed by all of its companions. She cried for everything that had happened over the past few days, she cried for Spot, for Brooklyn, for the boys downstairs, and she cried for herself. As she stood and looked up at the skies, she felt little comfort, but the silent tears did her good.

"Spitfiah?" She heard Shadow's voice and started. Quickly she wiped the telltale trails off of her cheeks with the back of her still damp sleeve and gave a very unladylike snort before she turned to face him.

"Yeah?" she asked, looking up into his soft brown eyes.

"Ah yous a'ight?" he pressed one of his strong hands against her cheek, stroking it with his thumb.

"Yeah," she gave a wobbly smile. "I'se fine. I -" she took a deep shaky breath before continuing, trying to get her emotions under control. Showing tears, even to this boy, wouldn't do. For tears were only signs of weakness to them. "I'se just up heah ta t'ink a lil'," she informed and he eyed her with disbelief.

"Yous been cryin'," he stated simply and she ducked her head, he let his hand drop.

"How do yous know?" she looked at her feet.

"Yous look it," he put his hand under her chin and lifted it to his eyes. "Somet'ing wrong?"

"Nah," She gave him another half-hearted smile. "I'se just a lil' tiahd, 'sides," she explained. "Goils like ta cry," she joked slightly and the corners of his mouth turned up.

"So yous a'ight?" he asked again, still concerned.

"Yeah, I'se fine," she nodded and he drew his hand back from under her chin. "How's Spot?" She quickly changed subjects, avoiding the conversation that she knew they needed to have.

"Da doc says dat he might be able ta fix his eyes," Shadow squinted and looked up at the sky. "But he says can't do it right now cause Spot don' have enough strength ta do ta suahgahy," he looked back down at her and saw that she had wrapped her arms firmly around herself. "Yous cold?" he asked.

"Nah, I'se fine," she lied.

"Yous look cold," he pointed out.

"I said I'se fine," she sounded slightly irritated and he backed off.

"A'ight," he shoved his hands into his pocket and looked at the stars again. "Ya t'ink it'll rain s'moah?" he asked casually.

"I dunno," Spitfire shrugged looking up at the sky with him. "I'se nevah been able ta tell nuttin' 'bout da weddah," she informed. "But my faddah, damn," she shook her head, chuckling slightly. "I sweah dat he had somet'ing in his head tellin' him whot wos goin' ta happen," she smiled at the memory and Shadow looked at her.

"Wheah's youah pops now?" he questioned.

"He's dead," she said woodenly. 

"Oh," Shadow searched for something to say, he should have known better than to ask. "I'se soahy," he offered.

"Nah, It's a'ight," she looked at him, locking eyes and knew that was a mistake.

"Spitfiah, I -" he paused, still looking deep into the gray depths of her eyes. "I - uh - back in Queens," he tried to figure out what he was trying to say. "Back when yous kissed me," he tried and she chewed on her bottom lip. "Did yous - I mean - what -" he stumbled over his words painfully. For normally being so articulate, this was terribly embarrassing.

"Why'd I'se do it?" She prompted and he looked relieved that she had been able to say it for him.

"Yeah," he nodded and now it was her turn to struggle for what to say.

"I guess," she started slowly. "I guess dat I kissed yous ta get yous ta be quiet," she admitted and he waited. "Maybe dere wos somet'ing moah," she shrugged.

"Yeah," Shadow spoke understandingly. Then he got nervous again. Licking his lips he looked down at her and seemed to have an idea.

"Ah yous a'ight?" Spitfire was concerned because he had a very curious expression on his face.

"I'se jus' t'inkin'," he paused. "Ya wanna try it again?" he offered hesitantly. "The kissin' t'ing?" he clarified and her eyes widened. Then she ducked her head as she blushed. "Whot?" he asked, thinking his idea perfectly reasonable.

"Ah yous seahious?" she looked up at him from under her long eyelashes.

"Yeah," he shifted uncomfortably and she stepped closer to him and raised her face.

"A'ight," she offered her mouth to him. "Let's try."

Shadow didn't need any more permission than that. Cupping her face in his hands, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her slowly, gently. Then slowly, he pulled back and looking her deeply in the eyes. Silently, Spitfire granting him permission and he dropped his head again, pressing his mouth to hers as he wrapped his arms around her waist. The stars alone held witness to this event as they twinkled in the sky above. It was a long time before Shadow and Spitfire returned to the room below.

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//When somebody loved me,

Everything was beautiful,

Every hour we spent together,

Lives within my heart …//

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There was sadness in her eyes as she walked up the stairs. Perhaps Spot was up there, and they needed to talk. Their time was over to talk, and she knew it, but perhaps, just maybe she could just tell him that she was getting married. Licking her lips nervously, she knew that if she saw them she might break down crying again, and she couldn't do that. This was a mistake, it was all a mistake. As she reached the top of the stairs, she lost her courage and turned back around.

Turning she descended the stairs to hear the door creak open. Two very large loud boys laughing hysterically emerged. When they saw Emily on the stairs they stopped laughing and doffed their hats. Even the stupidest of brutes knew that rule. 

"'Scuse us miss," One of them said as they passed her on the stairs.

"Your excused," she answered graciously, but paused. "Wait," She spoke in a sudden burst of courage. It's now or never she knew and turned. They both turned and looked at her questioning.

"Yes miss?" they asked almost at the exact same time.

"Do you know Spot Conlon is?" she asked hesitantly, feeling her cheeks reddening at the mentioning of his name.

"Uh, yeah, we knows who he is," the larger of the two answered after exchanging a strange look with his partner.

"Can either of you tell me if he is here?" She asked politely.

"No, he ain't here," the smaller shook his head.

"So you know where is he?" she questioned.

"Miss, Spot ain't goin' ta be 'round heah no moah," the larger of the two wrung his cap nervously in his hand and didn't meet her eyes.

"Why?" She asked quietly, not particularly wanting the answer.

"We pro'ly ain't da ones ta be tellin' yous," The smaller of the two looked ready to run.

"I don't mind," Emily comforted. "I just need an answer."

For about a minute, the two boys looked back and forth at each other, seeming to debate silently who would give her the sad tidings. Patently, Emily waited, but inside she was a buzz of nerves. Whatever was so terrible that they couldn't just come right out and say it? Had Spot left New York without telling her? Finally the smaller one looked back at her and cleared his throat.

"Spot's dead miss," he bowed his head respectfully, but more so to avoid her eyes.

"Dead?" Emily gasped, and she suddenly felt very dizzy. 

"Yes miss," the smaller one glanced at his companion, then looked back at Emily who had put her hand on the wall for support. "Ah yous a'ight miss?" He asked.

"Yes," she fought against the blackness that was threatening to close in over her.

"Ya shuah?" The larger one asked. 

"Yes," she pressed her eyes closed, trying to keep the darkness at bay.

"A'ight," the smaller one said and Emily heard them move away from where she was standing. "We'se goin' now miss," he excused them and Emily didn't respond. She couldn't.

A wave of nausea swept over her and she sat down on the steps. Spot was dead? It couldn't be possible, could it? Did he kill himself? Did someone kill him? Did those boys kill him? Was it her fault? Question after question tumbled over each other in a terrible turmoil that made her sick to her stomach. The last thing she asked herself before she got back up was, if Spot was dead, it really didn't matter if she got married, did it? 

Picking herself up off of the stairs, she trudged solemnly to the private quarters of her house. Up the other flight of stairs and into her room, she shut the door firmly before opening the window and climbing out into the cool night air. Everything outside seemed so fresh and so clean, a time of new beginnings. Maybe this was the new beginning she was supposed to make. 

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Yes, she was comforted mildly by the idea. _I am to make a new start,_ she tried to smile but failed miserably. Suddenly her knees felt weak and she sank onto the cool flat surface of the roof. Curling her knees up to her chest, she rested her cheek on top of them. Closing her eyes, the tears finally came.

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//Spilled her coffee broke her shoelace,

Smeared the lipstick on her face,

Slammed the door and said she's sorry,

She's had a bad day again…//

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Just as they said they would, the men met in secret once more after the set two days had passed. The grizzly sized man, Lindstrom, and the Irish man were all present again, all seemed nervous for something. The small man, Lindstrom, played with his immaculate handlebar moustache, and no one spoke for awhile.

"Do you think he will do it?" The grizzly man asked gruffly.

"He has to," the Irish man insisted.

"It is his life, we can't just force him into marrying your daughter," Lindstrom added.

"Yes we can," The Irish man insisted.

"And how do you plan to do that, O'Malley?" the large man growled.

"I have me information, an' it would be a shame if anybody else were to find out about it," The Irish man, O'Malley, responded.

"You mean blackmail?" Lindstrom sat up a little bit straighter.

"If you wish to call it that," O'Malley shrugged and Lindstrom let out a long sigh.

"I don't know," he shook his head. "Couldn't we simply use the information? Must we bring the girl into this?"

"No," The large man said finally. "Van-Morris already knows he is getting married," he explained.

"He does?" Lindstrom asked, surprised.

"Yes, and now that O'Malley has the records, there is no way out for him," The large man was strangely patient in his tone.

"But what about -" Lindstrom started again only to be cut off.

"You worry about your part of the job, and we will worry about ours," O'Malley said harshly.

"What about the girl?" Lindstrom persisted.

"What about her?" The grizzly man was becoming irritated with Lindstrom as well.

"Does she know?"

"Yes," O'Malley answered.

"Will she go through with it?"

"Yes."

"How can you be sure?"

"She will go through with it, mark my words," O'Malley promised.

"How is your side of the job going, Lindstrom?" The large man asked, switches topics.

"Smoothly," Lindstrom relaxed a little. "If your sides of the plan goes well, we won't have a single hitch," He twisted the tip of his moustache in his fingers.

"I have my side ready," O'Malley nodded.

"Mine is nearly ready," the grizzly man nodded.

"Are you sure that there isn't another way to do this? Lindstrom asked, seeming nervous again.

"We've been over this before," O'Malley growled. "This is how it will be done, no matter how many people are hurt."

"What if someone is killed?"

"Then the family will have to bury someone," the large man answered coolly, and it was clear that the conversation was over.

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The swirling blackness did only one thing for Spot in the three days that he passed in his condition. It gave him a lot of time to think, about everything. The time he spent before he was a newsie, the time he spent as a newsie, and the time he spent falling in and out of love. Strange concept it was to fall out of love. In truth he never had fallen out of love with Frost and he didn't plan on it anytime soon, but as for Emily…? It was better not to think about her now, it hurt more than any of the wounds he had sustained.

The doctor had bound his ribs and kept him motionless in the bed, but it didn't seem to do any good. Though he knew that tomorrow was the day of the surgery, he couldn't help but think of how he couldn't live in the darkness anymore. Just today, that know-it-all doctor had come to explain the surgery to him.

It really had sounded like a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to him, but he had taken away a little of the information. This blindness could be to the fact that in the fight, that had several blows to his head, some sort of blood clot or ruptured vessel could have occurred. What he was going to do was drill a few holes in his head and try and see if it was such. This could have caused too much pressure on certain parts of the eye, or parts of the brain that control the eye, causing them to shut down. There was one problem.

There was absolutely no way to be able to tell if this was the case in the matter. Though it was true that he had lost his vision in the fight, there was no evidence that he would ever regain his sight. There was no evidence that he would even recover from the surgery much less make it though it.

The idea of waiting for the surgery was for two reasons. One: so that Spot could regain some of the much needed strength he had lost. Two: to see if his vision would clear by itself. On this third day, Spot didn't feel any stronger and he couldn't see anything more than a large black scope of nothing. Tomorrow the operation would be underway and he would possibly be on the road to recovery. If not… now wasn't the time to think of this option.

Upon further inspection of Spot's battered body, Christopher P. Ervin found that he had only three ribs that weren't broken, cracked, or bruised. The reason it hurt so much to talk was because he had dislocated his jaw, which was now set back in place, but still hurt like hell and worse. Miraculously, nothing else was broken. 

Fading in and out of consciousness Spot's moments were laced with pain and drilled with remorse. The burning blackness that consumed him now was his reality, there was nothing else. Different scenes would play over his closed eyelids and even though he knew that his dead eyes couldn't really see them, they were as clear as the day itself. It was the only pass time he really had since he really couldn't talk and had no desire to do so. 

One thing no one would know was late at night, when no one else was awake; Spot would lie awake, blinking back the tears. He wouldn't cry, it wouldn't help anything now anyway. Besides, Spot Conlon didn't cry.

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//There were times,

I ran to hide,

Afraid to show,

The other side…//

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A twinge of something towards the area of his head woke Outsider. The twinge slowly grew more intense until it was throbbed with pain and he squint his eyes against the pale, but still offending, light that invaded them. He hurt and he moved to raise his hand to his head, but found that his arm was firmly bound. Frowning, he opened his eyes and saw that his arms weren't the only things that were bound. Why was he tied up?

The last thing he remembered was Brooklyn, but why wouldn't he remember Brooklyn? He was still there, wasn't he? Blinking, he raised his head and looked around the dank, dirty interior of what seemed to be an abandoned warehouse. Slowly he began to pick up details that suggested it wasn't quite so abandoned. A hat lying on the ground, a deck of cards or two lying aimlessly in the circle where he was tied, or the several crates that seemed to be makeshift beds were his clues. Groaning audibly against the pain that was crashing around him now, he lowered his head and the blackness came once more.

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//I hurt myself today,

To see if I still feel,

I focus on the pain,

The only thing that's real…//

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No one brought up the fact that Lice looked a little worse for wear with some nasty bruises and swelling showing from Spitfire's merciless attack. If he ever caught her… the list of things he imagined is too long to record here. One thing he enjoyed was the feeling of holding the cane of Brooklyn in his hands. Slowly, a twisted smiled played on his sore lips. So his mission was complete.

Brooklyn was his, Queens was his, and he had killed Spot Conlon. Yes, life was good for Lice, life was very good. The plan had basically gone off without a hitch, if that girl and Shadow hadn't gotten away it would have been flawless. Even this flaw though had its benefits. One hostage was enough for blackmail considering that he seemed to be fairly good friend with some of the more influential Brooklyn newsies.

The hostage, how could he have forgotten to check on the hostage? Reprimanding himself mentally, Lice got up from his perch atop some of the several wooden boxes in the Queens lodging house and headed towards the circle. The boy didn't seem to be awake yet, pity, he wanted to have a conversation with him. The words he had to exchange with him would be most sweet and choice. 

Lifting Spot's former cane, he delivered a solid blow over the back of the boy's head. A rewarding thwack came of his efforts and he smiled. Once more he smashed the cane over his hostage's head he smiled. Revenge for the damages he had sustained. Yes, that little girl and boy would be sorry that they ever cross him.

Again the wicked smile came to his lips as he fingered the cane in his hand, running the middle of his palm over the gold tip. Strange how things had turned towards his direction so quickly. Oh yes, it was certainly good to be Lice.

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"Get outta heah goil," A large rough looking newsies said to Flower as she stood on the street corner. 

"Dis heah is my spot, I'se can sells heah if I'se want!" She said boldly, knowing the rules of the streets.

"Dis heah wos youah spot, but it's mine now," He sneered and stepped forward menacingly. It took all of Flower's courage not to back down.

"Yous can't jus' take dis it!" She protested and the boy looked her up and down suggestively.

"Yeah I'se can," he scanned her again, this time a little slower. "But maybe we'se can make a deal," he hinted and her face blanched.

"In youah dreams," she snorted, grossly offended.

"I likes 'em wit' a lil' spahk," he laughed and stepped closer to her, grabbing her roughly around the waist. 

None of the passerby's paid any attention to the street rabble on the corner as they passed by at hurried paces. This was much to Flower's chagrin. As the oaf lowered his face towards hers, she struggled violently, spitting in his face and he shoved her away suddenly, sending her crashing to the ground. Wiping his hand down his violated face, the anger was evident in his eyes and Flower struggled to collect the papers she had dropped on the fall.

"Wrong move goil," he growled and yanked her to her feet, causing her to yelp in surprise. "You gets outta my spot an' if I'se evah see yous tryin' ta sell heah again, Is'll kill ya wit' my own hands," he threatened, the released her roughly. 

Stumbling back, Flower gave the large Queens boy a venomous glare before quickly gathering her papers and walking away. If this was any foresight of the future, Flower didn't like the way it looked. Nope, she didn't like it one bit.

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//I can't believe you'd let this happen to me,

And I can't believe you put those daggers though me,

And I can't believe you didn't try to save me,

From my pain…//

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More clouds moved in over the city, promising more of the life giving rain. How perfect for the weather to suit the moods of so many people at one time. Thought, they hadn't really had a chance to know the full ramifications of the alteration in leadership, they had a good idea at how different it would be. Regrets were clearly running rampant over the whole group as they all sat in the bunkroom, no one talking.

There was little that anyone could say to offer comfort to their companions, and little they could do but pray for no more rain. When it rained, there was little good in even trying to sell papers. For papers are highly absorbent, and if not kept out of the path of such water, would quickly become nothing more than a soggy pile of shreds. 

Though not selling papers jeopardized their lively-hood, what could they do?

It seemed that the only thing they could do was pray that the weather would favor them. Pray for the world to be a little kinder to them. Pray that this change in leadership would do nothing more than slight changes. It seemed that the Brooklyn newsies were going to have to pray more than they had in their entire life.

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//You've dreamed a thousand dreams,

None seem to stick,

In your mind,

Two points for honesty…//

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So the fated day arrived with rain and clouds and Spot was moved gently down the stairs to Kloppman's room. The man had agreed that they could use it for the surgery since it would be better for privacy. Thankfully, Spot wasn't conscious when they moved his broken body carefully down the stairs and into the small room that Kloppman called his own. Setting him down gently on the bed, the boys all looked strangely down at the Brooklyn leader. For one who had been known for such power and sophistication, he looked so defeated.

Silently, they shuffled from the room and waited for the doctor to arrive. There was nothing else they could really do, was there? The solemn mood of the boys was prone to bring quick agitation to the slightest and simplest of things. The cramped quarters of the downstairs area didn't help their disposition. Innocently, Mush started drumming his fingers on the floor where he sat, the noise echoed in the semi-silence, and irritated many.

"Will ya stop dat?" Jack finally exclaimed.

"Stop whot?" Mush, who normally had a fairly sweet disposition, snapped.

"Drummin' ya dumb fingahs!" Race threw in his own comment.

"I don' havta stop nuttin'!" Mush went defensive.

"Stop oah Is'll make yous!" Kid Blink growled.

"I'd like ta see yous try," Mush stood and challenged the disgruntled Blink.

"A'ight yous, I'se goin' ta show yous whot it's like ta hoyt," Blink also stood and moved closer to Mush, no one tried to stop the two.

"Go on an' try," Mush scowled, shifting into a fighting pose.

With that Blink threw a punch and Mush dodged it, and pretty quick, the whole room was an all out brawl. Punches were thrown blindly and no fighting etiquette was used, not even basic rules for your own safety. It was a brutal free-for-all in which there were no sides, and no goal besides trying to hit as many people as many times as you could. The fight ended as quickly as it started when the door opened and in stepped the Dr. Ervin.

Some of the boys were on the floor, others were holding each other by the hair, and some still had their hands pulled back waiting to throw the punch. It was as through time had stopped when Dr. Ervin stepped through the door. Smiling courteously, he stepped to the side as an older gentleman with gray hair spectacles came in after him.

"Hello boys," Dr. Ervin greeted them and they all mumbled their hellos, ashamed at the way they had been caught. "This is my friend Doctor Cunningham, he will be assisting me with the operation," Dr. Ervin explained. "Is the boy upstairs?"

"Uh, no," Jack spoke up, pushing through the crowd of boys. "He's ovah heah so yous can have moah privacy," Jack showed him to the small room where Spot lay still unconscious.

"Excellent," Dr. Ervin turned to the boys. "Are the sheets clean?" He asked and all of the scruffy looking boys turned and looked at their neighbors.

"Well, suah," Jack scratched the back of his head. "We ain't nevah had much use foah clean blankets," he explained. "Dey always gets doity again anyways."

"I see," Dr. Ervin frowned. "Then we will just have to work with what we have, won't we?" He forced a smile and stepped into the room. Jack knew that he wasn't happy.

"If dere's anyt'ing we'se can do, wes'll do it," he offered and the group nodded.

"No, I don't think there is anything right now," Dr. Ervin muttered, still looking around the room. "Could you boil some water?" He requested finally.

"Shuah," Jack answered, more than ready to help.

"Wonderful," Dr. Ervin smiled and Jack moved quickly to fetch some water and bring it to a boil. 

This proved to be a much harder task than he would have imagined and it took several minutes to bring the pot of water to a boil. Even then, it took several minutes to find some sort of pot that would hold the water and to stoke up the fire in the stove. Being summer, they hadn't had any fires going for months, so there were no sparks left to start it. Nearly forty-five minutes later, Jack came into the room with a pot of boiled water and set it on the ground. 

"Perfect," Dr. Ervin said and Jack looked at his friend as he lay on the bed. 

The doctors had stripped him to the waist, but that wasn't the shocking thing. All of Spot's brown hair was gone. The boy's head was shaved as smooth as his face and the sight was rather horrifying. Even on his scalp there were large bruises, one that had been covered by the hair, now revealed in their terrible splendor.

"We had to shave his head so we would have better access to it," Dr. Cunningham explained, wiping a blade in his hand with some yellow solution.

"I see," Jack wrinkled his nose against the foul smelling liquid. "Ya need anyt'ing else?" Jack offered.

"Keep some water on the boil in case we need more," Dr. Ervin instructed, and seemed to want to say more, but hesitated.

"Whot?" Jack asked, uncomfortable with the awkward silence.

"And pray for him," Dr. Ervin said. "It might be the only thing that will get him through," he smiled wearily. Already he looked tired.

With a mission in his mind and a prayer in his heart, Jack left the room, closing the door behind him. Whatever took place behind that closed door was now up to the doctors, and Jack could only pray that it would turn out according to plan. The solemn group that was still gathered in the front hall looked at him expectantly and he smiled bleakly. 

"Gotta boil s'moah watah," he told them and they all looked disappointed by the news. "An' Spot's bald," Jack's smile changed into a slightly mischievous one and the tension seemed to break at the thought of the mighty Brooklyn having no hair. "No body go in dat dere room now, ya heah?" Jack returned to a more serious tone and every single one of the newsie nodded in understanding. "An' one moah t'ing," Jack waited until he had all of the room's complete attention. "Da doc says dat we'se gotta pray foah Spot," he informed. "So ya bettah do it!" He added, trying to make the order sound tougher.

With that, he turned and went in search of something else in which he could boil water. As he rummaged through the various buckets and other metal contraptions Kloppman had offered, something told him that this was going to be a long day.

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A/N: Well there you go. Completely lame set-up chapter, but I promise you will know what happens to Spot and have some answers in the next chapter. Just like everything you have to set it up and now I am setting up a whole different side of the story than before. New characters, new relationships and new twists and turns that would even make the maze-master envious! My muses are still acting-up so I apologize for the delays. Now, a few words from our sponsors….

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Ireland O'Reily: I am having a big ol' pity party for myself because I am so discouraged with these stories. Maybe I am just going through the normal writing slump that causes so many authors to call it quit and never finish the story. AGH! I have so many sub-plots running underneath the whole Spot-is-blind part that I am having trouble keeping it all in order. (not to mention the fact that I have to remember which story I am writing. I mean **Blind Spot **or **Frostbitten**) Anyway, I always thought that Jack was kind of vain, so that I how I decided to portray him. Writing a parody eh? Well, um, I don't think I have that much humor in me! Ha, ha! Oh goody, no more midterms! How did you do? Do you know yet? AGH I don't think the muses like the idea of shock therapy…. I don't think _I_ like the idea of shock therapy! I don't need a cyber stalker! AGH! Talk about scary! And if I ever finish these two pieces of poop, I have about 4 other complete plot lines figure out, I just can't write them yet because I told myself I have to finish these first. Dang it! Well, um, thanks for threatening me that was fun. ^_^ Well, I don't think there were many answers in this chapter either, man I am mean. Hopefully we will get some resolve in the next few. I promise we will at least know if Spot makes it through the surgery.

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Priscilla: Hey, I'm glad that you have been enjoying this story, I'm not sure why you do, but I sure am glad that you do! I am going to try and stick it out to the bitter end and get this sucker done, but I don't know how soon that will be. You think that I stick to Spot's character? Well thank you so much, I have a hard time doing that and I really enjoy knowing that someone thinks I am doing it right! Take care.

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Red Cinnamon: Well, well, well, welcome to the review board for **Blind Spot**! I have so much to say to you with your reviews, this could take awhile! Ha, ha, I don't think I have ever had anyone quote my story in their reviews before. That made me laugh. Yeah, Spot doesn't really know how to be kind, he is kind of like, 'I want it so I am going to get it!' No one has really been able to teach him differently. My poor baby, maybe if I take him home, I can take care of him and teach him…. Whoops, went into a Spot fantasy right there, dang it! Why can't he be real? Why can't he be mine!? I'm sorry I made you all sad, but that was my aim in those chapters, so in reality I should be really happy that I got my work done. ^_^ You like my original characters? Well thank you, I like them too. In Brooklyn there were really any established characters but Spot, which makes Brooklyn fictions so much fun! Well Lice still is reigning supreme, but who knows? Maybe I will resolve this with a happy ending? Don't jump off the Brooklyn Bridge! I need you to review my story and give me the encouragement I need to finish this sucker! Well I can't tell you what happened to Frost, but I can tell you she isn't around in this story. So she disappeared somehow. Aren't I just a mean person to make you wonder? You like **Blind Spot** better than **Frostbitten**? Well **Frostbitten** was started as an afterthought about four chapters into this one, so I had to go back and rewrite all of the chapters and make references to Frost and such... but it was worth it! Who knows, maybe this one will have a sequel? Hmm… What a thought. You liked my little dialogue, eh? I liked the uneven eyebrow gag, and the Race making bets on everything, personally. I cracked up writing it, but my humor and style is different than most, so I didn't know if anyone else would like it. Well now that I have written this freaking huge response, I better go and acknowledge all of the other wonderful people. Take care. ^_^ 

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Peppermint: Well, thank you for your compliment on the story. I am not sure what Wild Arms 3 is, but I am sure it is a valid excuse for not reviewing. Practically anything is a valid excuse because I am such a nice person. School is another fabulous reason not to review. I hate school, grrr, oh well. Moving along, Spot is a loser, but I think I would be too. Darn Depressed!Spot!Muse…. Anyway, Shadow and Spitfire is what I like to call U/P which means, unusual pairing. I never thought that I would stick them together, but it seemed like a nice little twist to the story. Thanks for the review! Take care!

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Silent Breeze: You read my whole story and only gave me ONE review!? How dare you! Go back and review each chapter right now! Ha, ha, no I am just kidding, but you can if you want to. Well, just because I am such a nice person, and you are such a nice reviewer, I will let you join the Review Board, even though you got in on it a little late. Well if not reading this story is one of the bigger regrets in your life, you must not have very big regrets. -_^ So which story is your favorite so far, **Blind Spot**, or, **Frostbitten**? Well you will just have to make sure you write out all of the reasons why you like this story and put them in your next review and maybe that would motivate me to finish it! Ha, ha, I don't think praying to my muses will help anything right now, they are pretty much psychotic…. 

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Kaylee: Yep, I got your Race in there, maybe I should try writing a Race fiction after all of this is done…. Maybe, who knows? Race seems to be a pretty popular newsie among the ladies. -_^

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Crystal Rain: Well, I am continuing for now, but I am glad that you have been enjoying this story! Take care. ^_^

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Problems: Ooh, Midterms, it seems that a lot of people have been having those lately. Well hopefully they all went well? I might make Spot better, but I am not sure, the muses won't tell me if I get to make him better or not, yet. . : * Big sigh * : . Yes, Emily has an arrangement, but you just never know what is going to happen, do you?

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Rae Kelly: And so my life as a newsie fan fiction writer is complete! I have been reviewed by Miss. Newsie fan-fiction herself! Miss. Rae Kelly! Maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but I was surprised to see your name tagged onto a review for one of MY stories. . : * Calms her fast beating heart * : . anyway, since you've been reading it since the beginning, I like to make myself think that it means that you like this story?

So let me see, I think at last count, my reader count was at . : * **4 *** : . Well I have some good news for all of you, we now have… are you ready for this? . : * **9 *** : . Readers that actually review! I think I am going to cry I am so happy! Wow, I am so surprised I think I shall die! Now that would ruin this story now wouldn't it? Ha, ha, well, anyway, take care, and I hope you enjoyed this 'real' chapter.


	12. Crossroads

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, no infringement is intended, so don't sue me.

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A/N: So now as you can see, we have Spot all blind, depressed, and yes, bald. We have Shadow being redeemed while having a fling with the rather flaky Spitfire. We have Emily betrothed to some guy known only to us as Mr. Van-Morris. We have three guys, one of which has been established as Emily's father, tied somehow to this Mr. Van-Morris guy. We have Lice, who we all just love to hate, who has out poor little Outsider captive, and Brooklyn under his control. Manhattan is as clueless as ever, but I did manage to work some of my favorite newsies into this plot. ^_^ So, I think that about covers all of the little plots I am trying to run and keep track of for the moment. Is anyone else completely confused? Good golly this is like some bad soap on daytime television. Anyway, enough of my babbling and onto the story.

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Warning: Rated PG for light language.

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Chapter 11: Crossroads

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"_The night has a thousand eyes and the day but one…_"   
-- Francis William Bourdillon

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"What are you going to do about it, sir?" A mousy young man asked an older one as he paced restlessly in his fine home.

"I don't know," the older replied. "My hands are tied on this one."

"So you are going to marry her?" 

"I don't see that I have a choice right now," The older man kept pacing.

"Surely there is another way, can you not take it to the authorities?" Proposed the younger.

"And tell them what?" The older man said. "That they have records of how I have stolen from my own bank?" 

"You realize that no one knows besides them," the younger reminded. "They have sworn that."

"Yes, but they still know and that is too much," The older went over an expensive looking table and poured himself a drink of brandy. "Honestly, I don't know what to do Winston."

"Could you not do something to rid yourself of these problems?" Winston asked.

"Rid myself of them, what do you mean?" The older man poured a second shot of brandy down his throat.

"Perhaps you might consider having them - removed?" Winston hesitated, trying to find the right words. Just as he was about to down his third glass of liquor, the older man paused as the implication of his companions words struck him. Slowly, he turned and looked questioningly Winston, still holding his shot-glass in hand.

"Could you possibly mean what I assume you do?" He asked, shocked.

"It depends on your interpretation of my comment, sir," Winston answered respectively.

"I do believe you speak of murder, my good man," The older still sounded shocked.

"There is always that option, Mr. Van-Morris," Winston offered, and Mr. Van-Morris looked down at the brandy in his glass.

"I would hate for it to come to that," he spoke sullenly, staring at the liquor.

"Sometimes there is no other choice, sir," Winston pointed out.

"I consider myself a gentleman, Winston. A man of means and good-breeding," he lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank before speaking again. "Not a murderer," he set down the shot glass and began pacing again.

"It was only a suggestion, sir," Winston reminded and Mr. Van-Morris nodded absently.

"A suggestion - yes - a suggestion…" he lifted his hand and waved it, a signal of dismissal for the subservient Winston. Going back over to the liquor tray, he picked up the glass and filled it once more, drinking down the whole shot in one large gulp. The liquid burned as he coursed down his throat and he gripped the end of the table. Gasping as he slammed the heavy shot-glass down, he fought off the haze brought on from several previous shots. Now wasn't the time to be drunk, now was the time to be sober. For only in a clear mind would he be able to think of some solution to his problems at hand.

This was one crossroad on which he couldn't afford to choose the wrong path.

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"Well Cunningham, do you think there is any hope for the boy?" Dr. Ervin asked shortly after Jack left. 

"The outlook isn't good," he frowned as he looked at the boy. "The conditions for the operation are -" he looked around the dingy room. "Less than ideal," he grumbled and took the bucket of water that Jack had boiled and dumped some sort of solution into it that foamed instantly on contact with the water. "The least we can do is sanitize the immediate area," he pulled some strips of clean cloth, probably used for bandages, from his bag and dipped them into the water before bending down and scrubbing the floor.

Taking his lead, Dr. Ervin took some of his own bandages and started with the cleaning. When the area was passably clean, he looked at the bed where Spot lay. They had already stripped it down to the mattress, which was stained terribly and no doubt was filthy. They had no other option though, neither of the men had clinics of their own and neither of them could afford one.

The sad truth was that the rich were the only ones that got any semblance of decent medical care for that time. The poor, like the newsies, just couldn't afford it. Strange twists of fate, such as these, were rare to say the least. The terrible sadness of the situation had to be pressed to the side as they held the life of a young man in balance this day. The delicacy of the surgery and the number of unknowns made it look for a sore chance of the survival of the boy, but all they could do was try. 

After scrubbing their own arms and hands with the same soapy solution, the two men prepared for the surgery. Taking out the sanitized over-coats they had brought along with them, they put them on before covering their hair, nose, and mouths for strips of cloth. Lighting a lamp, they situated it above Spot's head and Dr. Ervin took the Carbolic Acid from his bag. Swabbing it onto a cloth, he ran it over his hands and then Spot's bald scalp. Dr. Cunningham did the same thing with his own hands.

Taking an ether-filled cloth, Dr. Ervin placed it over Spot's nose and mouth for several long seconds, making it so he would stay asleep during the operation. During this time, Dr. Cunningham took the pulse of the boy, letting Dr. Ervin know when it had descended enough for him to finish the administration of the anesthetic. With a deep breath, Dr. Ervin looked at his older companion and took a deep breath.

"Here goes everything," he said, and so began the operation.

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//Take me in my dreams recurring,

Careless as a childhood dance,

Into one more taste of freedom,

One more longing backward glance…//

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The golden age of Brooklyn had come to a crashing halt as soon as the transition of power had occurred. At one point, Brooklyn had been feared, renowned for its reputation of being a powerhouse, a place where only the strong survive. Few would have ever dared challenge such a territory, but as everything in life, things end. So it came to pass that the reputation of Brooklyn was demolished in practically a single day and the territory was molded into one larger one. 

Though the maps wouldn't change, the way of the newsies thinking would. No longer was Brooklyn separate; it was a joint territory, ruled by Queens. The ultimate humiliation for any borough was to be overthrown by another territory. Though it was rare, when it did happen, it took the world by storm. The newsie world, that is. The tyranny of Queens was oppressive to say the least, but as stated before, all things must come to an end.

The end however, wasn't in sight, and that was all the Brooklyn newsies cared about.

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//The spirit always burning,

Though the flesh is torn apart,

My spirit will keep on burning,

Though my flesh is torn apart…//

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Ghost and Fire had probably taken these events harder than all of the others. Ghost felt the terrible personal loss of Spitfire, and the inner-turmoil of not being able to do anything but stay there and obey Lice's orders. 

Fire on the other hand, had felt the brunt of Lice's wrath and couldn't help but cringe whenever the Queens boys came near. He knew them. One of them had been the one that had questioned him so severely. Knowledge of his name had come later. Bruiser, how very appropriate.

Though you could have asked each of the newsies individually and each of them could have told of the horrors they had sustained under Queens, none of them dared voice a complaint. The price of their rising would mean three of their number's lives. For now, that didn't seem worth it. Even though only one of them was still held, no one in Brooklyn knew that, and that was how it was to stay.

Changes, even though they weren't too terribly great, were changes. The main was that Lice was now the leader, and Spot wasn't. Differences in their leadership were apparent within the first day. Also, the boys from Queens had first rights on any selling spot and first rights at the distribution office. The difference was now instead of being respected; the Brooklyn newsies were treated like second class citizens.

Spirits of newsies, though, are indomitable, and no one could ever hold them down for too long. All it would take was one injustice to severe, one slip in leadership, or one crack in the powerful façade and everything would change. Until that one event occurred, the Brooklyn newsies would stay on the down low, but when that one event arrived…. Let us just say that Queens had better be on their toes. 

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//All my life I've wondered,

How it'd feel to pass a day,

Not above them,

But part of them…//

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Emily did the bare minimal after the news of her upcoming wedding and Spot's death. Her father had taken her to a dress store where she was fitted for a wedding dress. 'Something simple,' he father had said. Simple, as simple as marrying her off to whomever came across his way? It was disgusting. She felt cheap and degraded, but there was nothing she could do.

There was no one she knew, no where she could run, and she had no skills that could be marketed. Being too naïve for street life, and too weak to work in the factory, she knew that there was no place for her out there. How could she run when this had been the first time she had been out of the lodging house on an errand in more than three months? The city was as foreign to her as somewhere on the other side of the world.

The terrible truth was probably, more than anything else was she didn't want to run. Well, not really anyway, she had no desire to or motivation. The only reason she had before was gone now. If she refused to marry this mystery man, her father would probably beat her until she complied. So convinced was she that she was nothing and capable of nothing that she never dreamed that she might be able to complete anything on her own. When in truth she had held more responsibility than many girls had her age ever did.

This didn't matter though, what mattered was what she knew, and she didn't know that. All she knew what that he father had told her she was worthless, and that is what she believed. At one point, she might have believed otherwise, at one time she had someone who told her differently, but what did you do when that one person was gone?

It seemed as though her path had already been chosen, and in a way, it was.

****

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//An artificial season,

Covered by summer rain,

Losing all my reason,

Cause there's nothing left to blame…//

****

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There wasn't any pain. That wasn't what Spot had expected when he woke. Every other time he had waken all he had known was the intense pain that racked his beaten and broken body. Eyes fluttering open, he was surprised that everything around him was light. No, wait, that couldn't be right, he couldn't see anything. Turning his head from side to side, he saw an endless expanse of white. There were no shapes, no walls, no color, just white everywhere. It was practically blinding. How ironic, he could see only to be blinded by what he did.

Squinting against the brightness, he stood shakily. Feeling his face, he didn't feel the cuts or swelling he knew covered it. Frowning, he looked around again and still saw nothing but white. Where was he?

"Hello Patrick," a familiar voice came from behind him and he whirled around to find the same woman he had met that one fateful day.

"You," Spot hissed, angered at her presence. "Whot ah yous doin' heah?"

"I'm supposed to be here," she answered simply. "You, however, are not."

"Whot?" Spot scratched his head, already confused.

"Do you know where you are, Patrick?" she asked.

"No," he shook his head taking a few steps toward her. "I don' know whot kinda fancy trick yous playin' lady, but I ain't goin' ta fall foah it," he growled.

"There are no tricks, boy," she almost sounded like she pitied him. "You are at a place where you must make a decision," she said plainly.

"No," Spot shook an angry finger at her. "You ain't goin' ta do dat ta me again lady," he growled. "Last time yous did dat I ended up blind," and as he said those words he was reminded that he shouldn't be able to see any of this.

"No you wouldn't be able to see this normally," she answered, seeming to read his very thoughts. 

"Den why can I see it now?" He questioned, almost not wanting the answer.

"Because Patrick," she paused, looking him deeply in the eyes and Spot felt naked. "You're dying."

****

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Pain, throbbing pain in the back of his head. Someone was groaning, why wouldn't they stop? It was making his head hurt worse. Wait, it was he that was making those noises, why couldn't his stop himself? Lifting his head, he tried to pull open his eyes, and with much difficulty, he did. Where was he?

Outsider saw the same things he had seen when he had managed to open his eyes earlier. The same boxes and crates, and the same sheets and dirt floor, one thing was different though. There were boys in the room with him now. Lots of them, ones he had never seen before, and it was then that he knew he was probably in trouble.

Attempting to lift his hand, he was stopped by something holding it down. What was it? Ropes? Why was he tied? Obviously there was something that he couldn't remember that he needed to and he struggled to fill the gap in his memory. Brooklyn, he definitely wasn't in Brooklyn. Then where…? The question that was trying to formulate never was finished because it was answered for him by the voice that followed.

"He's awake, go get Lice!" Someone called and then it all came crashing back.

Spot was gone, Queens controlled Brooklyn, and he hadn't done anything about it. In fact had probably caused most of the problem. The shame and the self-loathing of the realization hit him, making him nauseous. The pounding in his head as the tiny men with big hammers did their work. Dropping his head, he closed his head again, giving into the merciful blackness that was closing in around him.

****

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__

//Peace is what they tell me,

Love am I unholy,

Lies are what they tell me,

Despise you that control me…//

****

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__

Ten minutes until closing, only ten, no more, no more… So went the nervous ramblings in the man's head as he sat in his office. _Nine minutes until closing, no more, no more…_ he changed his mantra after looking at his pocket watch. The seconds seemed to move so slowly as he fiddled nervously with the pen on his desk.

The small man with the perfectly manicured handlebar moustache fidgeted in his leather chair as he tried to focus on the numbers on the papers in front of him. Though every time he attempted to do so, his eyes would blur and he would reach for his pocket watch, waiting for the second hand to tell him it was time to close the bank. Maybe this was all a mistake, he really shouldn't have agreed to this, but if the bank went under at least he would have some money left over wouldn't he?

"Lindstrom!" The loud voice boomed as the office door crashed open. It took all of the small man's will power not to scream like a small girl.

"Y-y-yes sir?" the nervous man stood, trying to calm the erratic beat of his heart.

"You will need to close the bank today, I have work to do," the man was obviously someone of authority to throw orders as such.

"Y-yes sir, Mr. Van-Morris," Lindstrom agreed readily, trying to control the nervous stutter he had developed. Then as quickly as he had entered, Mr. Van-Morris left.

Letting out a long breath he hadn't known he had been holding, Lindstrom eased back into his seat shakily. His head hurt, it hurt a lot, and this stress wasn't good for him. Why had he ever accepted this job? Reasons, there had been several, but he couldn't remember a single one right now. Why had he picked this path? Why had he moved down this path on the crossroad? Kneading his right temple with his right hand he pulled his pocket watch out and looked at it.

__

Seven minutes until closing, only seven, no more, no more….

****

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"Dying?" Spot nearly choked.

"Yes," the woman nodded. "I had wanted to tell you differently, but you insisted."

"So is dat why yous ah heah?" Spot spat angrily. "Ta makes fun o' me dyin'?" 

"No," she shook her head gently. "If you want to live you shall, if you don't you will not."

"Yous t'ink dat I'se wanna die?" Spot accused, losing himself in his anger.

"I know you do," she said confidently. "You've wanted to die for a long time now, haven't you Patrick?"

"How da hell would yous know?" he bellowed. "Yous a'eady ruined me life, so yous goin' ta ruin da rest o' it now? Go ahead!" he spread his arms as if to offer her a free shot at him.

"I'm not going to explain how I know, we don't have time," she said simply. "But there are some things you need to know," she spoke seriously and Spot felt it best to listen to her. "You want to die, Patrick," She told him easily. "You've wanted to for years, ever since you killed your father."

"Dat wos an' accident," he denied quickly.

"That doesn't matter now," she shook her head. "All that matters now is the choice that you are about to make," taking a deep breath she stepped closer to him, reached up, and held his face in her small warm hands.

"Whot ah yous doin'?" Spot asked, uncomfortable.

"Do you want to live, Patrick O'Connor?" She searched his face with her deep, unfocused eyes. When she looked at you, it was as though she was looking right through you, seeing everything you thought or felt.

"Whot kinda question is that?" Spot asked indignantly and tried to step back, but found it impossible.

"A very important one," she pleaded quietly. "Do you want to live, Patrick O'Connor?" Spot felt chills run down his spine as she said his name.

In that instant as he looked down at her face, Spot knew that he was at a crossroads. It was the decision that he made right now that was going to effect his whole existence. If the previous visit of this woman was any proof at all, he knew that she was something to be reckoned with. Everything was pivotal on what he said right now, not only what he said, but also what he meant. For one brief instant Spot held his own fate in his own hands and was the master of it. Exhilarating as it might seem, he knew that it was not a matter to take lightly. So slowly, his answer began to form in his mind.

"Yes," he spoke softly. "I want ta live."

A beautiful smile shone on the woman's face as she dropped her hands and stepped back. " I know you do," she said and he knew it was the truth. "Then live you shall Patrick O'Connor. Live you shall," with those final words the complete whiteness that had surrounded him began to fade into the swirling blackness. Then, there was nothing.

****

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__

//Today,

The minutes seem like hours,

The hours go so slowly,

And still the sky is light…//

****

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So as it seems to do quite regularly, time passed. Hour after painstaking hour rolled by and the Manhattan newsies were on pins and needles the whole time. There weren't any more fights, but there was definite tension. Spitfire didn't allow Shadow to comfort her as she sat alone the whole day, deep in thought. So it passed. There was nothing that anyone could do, no papers to sell, and no cards that anyone wanted to play. All of them waited sullenly around the entry area.

Bored but not wanting to do anything. Tense, but to relaxed to get up and stretch. The terrible reality was that none of them really cared to do what they normally did. The entire balance of their lives revolved around the outcome of this surgery. No matter how independent any of them pretended to be, it was inevitable that they were now bonded together.

The careful balance that they had formed was built off of the repetitive patterns that they had forged. In a world of so many inconstancies, they would cling to anything that was the same, anything that was consistent. One thing that had been a corner stone in their lives for years had been the mighty Spot Conlon of Brooklyn. The way everything turned out would alter their lives whether they wanted to admit it or not.

It was because of this when Dr. Ervin stepped out of the room wiping yellow and red hands on a bloody cloth that everyone sprung to life. A million questions were waiting to be asked, but no one said a word, they all just waited. The middle-aged man seemed to be searching for the right words to tell them. It was clear that they weren't going to want all of the technical jargon he could offer, so he decided to make it simple.

"He made it through," Dr. Ervin said wearily, he looked about ten years older than he had when he went into the room. "But that doesn't mean anything," he said and the spirits that had risen like hot-air balloons crashed to the ground like rocks. "He will need to be monitored, and my friend Dr. Cunningham," Dr. Ervin referred to his co-worker. "Has taken a special interest in the case," he explained and the group looked at him questioningly.

"Whot ya sayin' doc, is Spot goin' ta be a'ight?" Jack asked, being the voice for the group.

"We don't know, Jack," Dr. Ervin sighed. "But as I was saying, Dr. Cunningham would like to take Spot with him to his office and keep him there," he said. "So that he can keep a closer eye on him. If this surgery was a success, it would be a large medical breakthrough," Dr. Ervin informed and the room was quiet for a moment.

"Yous mean, like takes him away?" Spitfire asked from the back of the room, practically forgotten by the others.

"Yes," Dr. Ervin answered heavily. "His chances of survival would be better, and Dr. Cunningham is a real doctor, unlike myself," he discredited himself. "I would be the best for him," he said seriously, almost trying to comfort the group.

"Ah we'se goin' ta know if he's a'ight?" Jack questioned.

"I'm sure that we can keep you updated," Dr. Ervin comforted.

"Can we'se see him now?" Kid Blink asked from the front.

"No, not now," Dr. Ervin shook his head.

"Damn," he heard the boy mutter.

"If there aren't any other questions," Dr. Ervin said. "Would you let us move your friend?" he asked and the whole room was silent, their eyes turning to Jack who looked conflicted.

"Yous shuah dis is da best foah him?" Jack asked one final time, meeting Dr. Ervin's eyes with deep concentration.

"Yes," Dr. Ervin answered confidently. "I am very sure," he comforted and Jack looked at him for a long time.

A crossroads had come to Jack, he didn't know what to do. Both could jeopardize the mortality of his friend, and he knew it. Mentally deliberating, his eyes didn't waver from the doctors. After a long silence Jack opened his mouth to speak.

"Yes," Jack answered with a heavy finality. "Take him."

****

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A/N: First things first, I would like to wish a very happy birthday to a very faithful reader: Ireland O'Reily. Happy 16th and my wishes of many happy returns of the day. ^_^ Second: I have an option for all of you readers. Would you prefer shorter, more frequent updates? Or longer chapters like I normally post, but having to wait for a week or so for them? I figure since you are the reader I will give you what you want, and if you want shorter, more frequent chapters, I guess I can do that…. I don't know if it is too big of a pain to try and read my longer posts off of the computer screen, I know that I print really long chapters because it hurts my eyes to read off of the computer that long. Anyway, if you bother to review, give me your opinion! Now a few words to my dear reviewers….

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Ireland O'Reily: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Ireland, Happy birthday to you. ^_^ With that out of the way we can now get down to the other comments. Yes, Spot is bald, but I for your birthday, I gift wrapped a personal Spot Conlon with a full head of hair! . : * Hands present to you * : . Ha, ha, don't worry, hair grows. Now while I said I would let you know if he made it through the surgery, I never told you if he would make it afterwards. Hmm… and so the plot thickens. Well, you are just going to have to wait to find out what happens with Emily's dad, because the muses haven't told me yet, but I promise to pass along the information ASAP. Woo hoo! A's and B's on midterms is nothing at which to thumb your nose! As for French… they never were any good for anything anyway. If you study history, the French people used to be called the Galls and they never won ANY battles ever. So whatever, they are worthless. -_^ I am not a big fan of French, I am much more partial to German and Russian myself, but anyway. You didn't fail French did you? Oh well, stupid teachers, you get an A + for always reviewing my stories! I love you!

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Priscilla: Thank you, thank you, I am not worthy of your praise. But I can't say I don't like it… -_^ Yep, poor Emily. I just love making it so you just want to hate me. [ Insert evil laugh here ] Trust me, I am not trying to kill you with my suspense, I am just trying to get you to come back and read more. Ha, ha. Anyway, take care and don't forget to tell me if you want long, less updated chapters, or more frequently updated short chapters. ^_^

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Rae Kelly: Well now I shall go and do a happy dance because the legend of newsie fan fiction has given me her approval. . : * Dances, but stops before she hurts herself * : . I aim to be different, so thank you for your compliment. ^_^ One of these days I will get around to reading one of your fictions, just you wait! Anyway, if you bother to review, don't forget to tell me if you want long, less updated chapters, or more frequently updated short chapters.

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Red Cinnamon: I'm a silly butt? Well humph! . : * Walks off in a pout * : . Nah, I know that you are just messing with me. I think I am over the 'I hate this story' phase, I just got frustrated with it. That happens so very often with me, oh well. I am sure that other authors go through the same thing. I can't wait to see what happens either, the muses have been silent as to clueing me into the happenings of the future. Darn it! Yeah, everyone deserves a good little pity-party besides Lice and Emily's dad. They deserve a good spanking! I personally feel the sorriest for having to cut off all of Spot's beautiful hair. AGH! But hey, any Spot is a good Spot to me. ^_^ I can't tell you if I will kill Spot yet, all we know is that he made it through the surgery…. Don't forget to tell me if you want long, less updated chapters, or more frequently updated short chapters.

Well we are down to . : * **4 *** : . readers, but I guess I will just have to learn to deal with it. Oh well, take care everyone!


	13. Daydream Believer

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Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story, I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. The song lyrics posted through out are not mine. They belong to the label, the producers, the artists, the writers, the band, and anyone else who is associated with their genius. I don't own them, I never will, I am not making money off of them, and I take no claim to them at all.

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A/N: Well, this update has taken awhile. Between recovering from being sick, mandatory drama rehearsal, and hockey practices/games I really haven't had a lot of time. (Not to mention that I have been updating **Frostbitten** more than this one. It is the prequel to this story, so you might want to go read it right now. It isn't bad, so make sure to review too.) All right, that was a shameless plug, but it is good. I hope that this update was worth the wait. Oh yeah, and now that you know that **Frostbitten** is the prequel to this story, there will be references to it in this chapter. So if some things don't quite make sense in some parts, that is why. ^_^

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Warning: Rated PG-13 for underlined themes, profanity, and violence.

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Chapter 12: Daydream Believer

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"_And sight out of blindness…._"   
-- Sidney Lanier

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__

//I need some distraction,

Oh - beautiful release,

Memory seep from my veins,

Let me be empty…//

****

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Moving Spot was harder than they had expected. Though they knew that it would be a delicate procedure, it was slower and more grueling than they had every dreamed. The two doctors had the most able bodied and strong of the lodging house boys to help them, but only after they had properly scrubbed and cleaned themselves. While they boys had been doing that, Doctor Cunningham and Doctor Ervin had tracked down a wagon that they would be able to use to transport him. 

They had to rent it from the livery, but they had gotten it and had to clean out the inside. After they had done that, they drove it back with the pair of horses they had borrowed also. A fairly costly venture, but if this surgery was a success, it would be revolutionary to the way people looked at procedures sure as this.

The complexity of all of these happenings was confusing the newsies back at the Manhattan lodging house. Why couldn't Spot just stay there, wake up, and see? Then he could go back to Brooklyn and beat the hell out of those Queens newsies before they even had tasted what it was really like to control the ruthless Brooklyn territory. Spot was, in a way, one of the untouchable gods of the newsie realm. More of a being from another world than a human, he was. The reality of his disability was staggering to say the least, so much so that few were really able to comprehend the full ramifications.

Finally, when Spot was in the sanitized wagon wrapped in a clean sheet and Doctor Cunningham in the back with him, they left the Manhattan lodging house. The course they set out for was the office of Doctor Cunningham. It was the place where they could keep him the safest from the numerous infections he would be susceptible to. Normal operations of the time were dangerous enough, but operations that actually exposed the brain…. 

Let us just say that they were rare enough that real statistics weren't available. The facts that were around weren't good though. That didn't matter right now though, Spot wasn't a statistic, he was a living breathing patient that was going to need a lot of care so that he wouldn't become one of those statistics. 

Both of the doctors had seen the looks on the faces of those as they had tried to peer at the pale boy as the large, clean boys had transported him carefully to the wagon. Their eyes had held fear, respect, and even if they would never admit it, concern. Somehow, this unfortunate soul had managed to gain all of these from those around him. Even if he had never met him, Doctor Ervin knew that this was someone worth fighting for. So onward they pressed, careful to not jar the unconscious boy as they moved him somewhere that he might be more comfortable. Both prayed that this hadn't been a mistake in judgement.

****

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__

//We may rise and fall,

But in the end,

We meet fate,

Together…//

****

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"Dammit Winston!" Mr. Van-Morris exclaimed. "Where are those papers?" He searched angrily through the stacks and stacks of papers on his desk and the tables around it.

"I don't know Sir," Winston answered, looking through his own stack of papers. "They must be here somewhere," he comforted as the man in his thirties continued to look frantically.

Stacks of papers and files were strewn about the lavishly decorated room. The walls were lined with thick, hardbound books and the floors covered with rich carpets. At least the parts of the floor that weren't covered with papers were covered with carpets. The thick draperies on the windows were pulled back to reveal the setting sun, and the need to soon light a lamp. Two men were looking through the multiple piles and stacks of leaves of papers and files. The oldest of the pair seemed to be quite impassioned on his search, while the younger looked more out of duty than personal interest.

"They aren't here!" Mr. Van-Morris slammed the last stack he had been looking through onto the floor, sending the papers flying everywhere.

"Then where would they be?" Winston asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

"I don't -" Mr. Van-Morris started but paused. "Blast!" he muttered.

"What is it, sir?" Winston questioned.

"They do have them," he muttered under his breath and Winston looked puzzled. "But how in the devil did they get them?" he asked rhetorically and Winston stood uncomfortably, waiting for his next command.

"May I help you with anything else, sir?" he asked obediently and Mr. Van-Morris looked up from his pondering.

"What?" Mr. Van-Morris looked slightly flustered. "Oh, no, no, not unless you can get those papers," he frowned and the younger man turned to leave when the older called him back. "Wait a moment," he came around front of his desk and stood very close to the younger, lowering his voice. "What of that _other_ option," he said quietly and Winston smiled slightly.

"I know of a man who can help you with that, sir," he kept his voice equally low.

"You might consider contacting this man," Mr. Van-Morris instructed. "I may have some things to discus with him," he chose his words carefully.

"Certainly sir," Winston stepped back and gave a slight bow from the waist. "Your order shall be carried out," he kept the light smile on his mouth.

"Make sure they understand that this is a secret matter," Mr. Van-Morris instructed. "And if they are up to the task, they shall be handsomely rewarded," he added and Winston nodded.

"No need to worry, sir," Winston smiled. "These men are professionals.

"They'd better be," Mr. Van-Morris sank down into a plush chair, his head throbbing. "It would be very unfortunate for those involved if they were anything but," he directed the underlined threat towards the younger man and Winston swallowed heavily.

"There is no reason to worry," he assured.

"For your sake," Mr. Van-Morris said. "I hope you're right."

****

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A single lamp was lit in the bank as a small man moved with a mouse-like meekness. The steps he took were soft, slow, and nearly silent as he slipped across the polished stones of the floors. The last of the tellers and accountants had left for the evening, going home to family and the bright hope of tomorrow. One man, however, had stayed.

Making the quick rounds of the entirety of the banks premises, checking until he was satisfied that he was alone. Completely and thoroughly alone, nothing else would do. His rounds had finished in the same place they had started, before a large oak door. A brass plaque proclaimed that this was bank president's office, making it clear that intrusion wasn't welcome.

With shaking hands, the man took out the large ring of keys he had in his pocket and flipped through them, muttering under his breath. The handlebar moustache that he kept so meticulously twitched nervously as he inserted the proper key into the gaping hole. Turning it, a satisfying click met his ears and taking one more cautionary glance around, he pushed open the large door. The hinges protested as the heavy door swung open and the small man jumped at the noise, but quickly calmed himself, trying to gain control over his fear.

Still muttering incoherently under his breath, he began to search through the dark area for his prize. Different files were on the desk and the mahogany cabinets shone in the dim light of the lamp. A thin sheen of perspiration coated his forehead and balding scalp as one shaking hand held the lamp and the other prodded weakly into the different piles. Why had he ever agreed to do this again? The thing he wanted was not out in the open, and was most likely to be well hidden. Using this logic, the small man went over to the small safe in the corner of the room, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room.

How would he get into this thing? What had his partners said about breaking into safes? Right, left, right… or was it left, right, left? There was something about listening for the click too, wasn't there? What would the click sound like though? This was the job for a criminal, not a gentleman. Swallowing for about the hundredth time since he had entered the office, he reached out and touched the cool metal of the safe. The cold jolt that went through him at the contact was startling and he gasped. Closing his eyes, he leaned as close as he could to the safe and listened for what he thought to be the 'click.'

After what was an eternity in hell for the man, he heard what seemed to be the unlocking of the small metal box. A shuddering breath that he hadn't know he was holding escaped from his thin lips and he gripped the handle. Turning it, he opened the safe and maneuvered the lamp so he could see more clearly. There they were. The papers he had wanted. These were the records that the accountants never got to see and the thing that his partners wanted. Licking his lips, he reached in and drew them out.

Then a thought came, surely they would be missed. Missing papers such as these would cause a heated search, at least on Mr. Van-Morris's part. Of course he couldn't have anyone else look for them or else they might discover his treachery. Though he knew that an open search would never occur, he knew that Mr. Van-Morris would open this safe tomorrow and see that these papers were missing.

What was there that he could do? Looking around he went to the desk and pulled out a small pile of blank papers, nearly equal to the size of the papers that he was taking. Opening the envelope that held the real documents, he replaced them with the blank and resealed it before putting it back in the safe. If the bank owner simply looked into his safe, nothing would seem amiss, and that would give them more time to utilize this newly acquired playing piece. They already had some blackmail, but this was what would clench it for them. 

As quietly as he could, he shut the safe door and made sure that everything was in place. Nothing could be altered. Satisfied, but always nervous and wary, the man left as silently as possible. Returning to the office that was his own, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it heavily. Even though he knew that there was no one there with him, it felt like a million eyes had been watching him the entire time. Collecting himself, he went to his briefcase and deposited the newly thieved documents. Then with one final sweep of the building making sure that Mr. Van-Morris's door was locked, he left. 

Making sure the bank was securely locked, he went out the gates that surrounded the entrance and made his way to the carriage that he knew would be waiting for him. A footman came off of the perch he had made for himself and opened the door for his master. This didn't even register in the small man's mind as he moved into the cool, dark interior of his ride. The dark leather of the seats offered little comfort in their familiarity as the carriage started forward with its usual lurch.

__

Three more weeks, he thought to himself nervously. _Just three more weeks…_

****

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__

//If that's all you will be,

You'll be a waste of time,

You've dreamed a thousand dreams,

None seem to stick in your mind…//

****

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__

It was raining. The heavy drops of water blurring all of the images around him as it streamed off of his face into his eyes. Blood, sweat, and rain soaked through his clothes, leaking onto the ground around him. Every part of his body was injured, every part but the ones that should be damaged the most. His hands were perfectly fine, though the knuckles should have been red and cracked from fighting. One would have to fight to have damaged hands though.

Through the pain that racked his body, he somehow managed to lift his head. The assault had seemingly stopped for an instant. What he could see was hazed, but at least he could see. Lifting his head, he looked around and saw a dark blur moving. Something glinted gold before a crashing pain came over him. Then it was black.

"He's shaking again," Dr. Cunningham informed his nurse beside him. "Help me hold him down," he grabbed the young man's arm and leg and the nurse on the other side did the same.

"What do you think is causing this, Doctor?" the male nurse asked as he looked down at the boy.

"It's the head trauma," Dr. Cunningham said sadly as the boy stopped shaking and he released him. "I don't think he is going to make it through the night," he added sadly. 

"No," another voice cut in and the pair saw Dr. Ervin had entered. "He's going to make it," he stated firmly and Dr. Cunningham looked skeptical.

"How can you be so sure?" The older, real doctor inquired.

"Look at the boy," Ervin pointed and the pair looked. "He's a fighter, and he's going through the fight of his life," he assessed and Dr. Cunningham looked at his questioning.

"You can tell all of this by simply looking at him?" Cunningham sounded indignant.

"Yes," Ervin said confidently.

"And how do you know?" The nurse challenged and Dr. Ervin looked at him with a steady gaze.

"Because," Ervin replied, "He reminds me a lot of myself."

****

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__

//And I thank God that he let you,

Lay be side me for a moment that lives on,

The good news is im better for the time we spent together,

And the bad news is you're gone…//

****

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Distraction was one thing that Emily wanted as she sat upstairs in her room. The weather was nearly suffocating as the heat was closing around her. It was sweltering, the rain had cooled off the weather for a few days, but now it was just as hot as it had been before. There was no problem with the oppressive humidity anymore as the scorching heat had consumed the last of the puddles days ago. The rain would have been welcome to come again as the weather would then better suit her mood.

For it seemed that she was a little rain-cloud. It wasn't that she wasn't thankful to her father for all he had done for her over the years, in reality she was lucky compared to some, but to others she was cursed. So many of the boys and girls in this lodging house alone were orphans or runaways from much poorer circumstances then her own. That however wasn't on her mind as she stared out the window to the view of a lonesome brick wall. 

Spot was on her mind. It seemed strange to think that a little over a week ago, she was happy, content, falling asleep in his arms. Strong arms, warm arms, arms that would never hold her again. Bitterly she remembered that no matter how much she wanted him back, it would never be so. The sadness reflected in her green orbs as she sighed deeply, trying to forget the only things worth remembering.

Opening the window, she was hit by the intense heat and she crawled out onto the small roof space. The noises from the streets did little to distract her from her thoughts as she curled into a ball in the same place they had slept. Squeezing her eyes closed tightly, she could still imagine what it felt like to be there, on that night. Then she would open her eyes, half expecting to see his smiling face, but he wouldn't be there. 

Silently, she stood and went back inside and shut the window behind her. A lonesome tear rolled down her pale cheek and she brushed it aside. The time for tears was over and she had to face the truth. Spot was gone, he wasn't coming back. She was getting married to a man she had never met… but if now wasn't a time to cry, when was?

****

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__

//Of all the things I've believed in,

I just want to get it over with,

Tears form behind my eyes,

But I do not cry…//

****

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It was equally hot in Manhattan as it was in Brooklyn as the sweltering August night offered little if no relief from the constant discomfort. No wind or promises of rain helped to alleviate the hellish temperatures that made even the most heat tolerant of the boys to drip with sweat. It was as hot in the summer as it was cold in the winter. New York was an oven that would soon turn to an icebox. 

The icebox months seemed a very distant memory this night as many of the boys and girls found minor relief on the roof above the Manhattan lodging house. Decency was forgotten as the two groups stripped down to their lowest layer in hopes of cooling themselves slightly. Kloppman was unaware of this, but if he had been, it was most likely that he wouldn't stand for it. Already, the boundaries were stretched as he let girls stay at his lodging house. To find them up on the roof to the point of immodesty would have thoroughly riled him. 

A pair however were not on the roof with the others, they were down in the bunkroom. The temperature from the outdoors wasn't the only heat that they were feeling as his mouth came down on hers again, driving every logical thought from her mind. She gave up the idea of trying to stop him long ago as his strong hands held her face firmly. Her long red hair was already mussed from where he had held and she could feel her body forming to mold against his like she was made to be there.

Breathlessly, he pulled back, his piercing dark eyes, heavy with arousal, looking into her gray ones. Soft gasps were the only sound radiating throughout the room as they tried to catch their breaths, shaken from the kiss. It was the girl that stepped away first, putting some space between them as reality began to take hold of her passion-clouded mind. The feelings that this boy could invoke were startling, frightening, and completely appealing.

"I have ta get back ta Brooklyn," she said quietly and he frowned taking another step towards her but she held up her hand to stop. "I gotta talk ta Ghost," she informed. "I'se still his goil ya know," she reminded and the boys face fell.

"You knows we'se can't go back ta Brooklyn," the boy's shaggy dark hair fell into his eyes before he brushed it back. "Lice'll kill us."

"But until I'se talk ta Ghost, I'se still his goil, an' we'se can't be doin' dis no moah," she took another step away from him as if to accentuate her point.

"He doesn't have ta know," the boy offered, his voice low, and she shook her head.

"I ain't like dat, Shadow," she looked down at the floor. "I'se a'eady done moah dan I shoulda wit'choo," she looked back up at him. "I ain't a whoah," she said quietly, but her words were passionate.

"I knows dat," he tried to approach her again but she pulled back. "I cahah about yous Spit," he used the shortened version of her name.

"An' I knows dat," she said, trying to be rational, knowing that if she was in his arms rational was the last thing she would be. "I'se cahah 'bout yous too," she smiled slightly. "But I ain't goin' ta be kissin' yous till I'se can talk ta Ghost," she stated firmly.

"Dere ain't no way yous goin' ta go back ta Brooklyn," Shadow crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'se gotta go back dough, Shadow," she insisted. "I'se gotta talk ta Ghost," she already knew the risk she would be taking even setting foot onto the Brooklyn bridge. "An' I'se gotta let all o' dem know dat I'se a'ight."

"Send somebody else ta talk ta him," he suggested. "Write him a note or sum't'ing," he offered and she shook her head. "It ain't safe ta go back dere, no mattah whot youah reason is."

"I knows it ain't safe," she replied. "But I'se got friends back dere, an' when ya end somet'ing ya gotta do it youah self, in poyson," she set the standard.

"I won' let yous got back dere," Shadow stated finally and she looked at him indignantly. "I cahah too much 'bout chu ta let yous get hoyt."

"You ain't goin' ta let me?" She gaped. "Who ah yous tellin' me whot I'se can oah can't do?" she set her arms akimbo.

"If yous don' wont me ta tell ya whot ta do, why'd ya tell me yous goin'?" Shadow challenged and Spitfire looked at him intently.

"I don't wont ya ta stop me," she said frankly and he looked confused for a moment.

"Den why did yous tell me, ya coulda just left?" Shadow pondered aloud.

"If yous really cahah 'bout me, you'll let me do dis," she said and her words hung in dead air. Their eyes stayed focused on each other and Shadow's jaw locked. Tension was thicker than the heat that surrounded them, and it was clear that Shadow wasn't going to give on this one.

"I won't let yous go," he said tensely and Spitfire's eyes hardened.

"Den yous don' cahah," she said through clenched teeth and he stalked over towards her, his stance taut.

"Yous won' go ta Brooklyn," he ordered harshly and she looked up at him defiantly, not backing away this time, but looking at him with an open challenge in her eyes.

"Whot ah yous goin' ta do, chain me ta da bunks?" she laughed haughtily and dark fire flashed in his eyes.

"If dats whot it takes," his voice was smooth with underlines of thunder.

"I'se goin' ta Brooklyn whethah yous try ta stop me oah not," she felt angry tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

"Fine!" He relented. "Go an' get youah self killed, but I ain't goin' ta come an' save yous when ya get caught," he growled and she could hear the pain in his voice.

"Fine," she hissed and then they simply stared at each other, the power of their emotions swirling out of them and slamming into the other.

They were very close, their bodies nearly, but not touching. His face hovered above her own, his dark eyes flashing with the rage that he felt and hers with the betrayal. No matter what, she was going to return to Brooklyn and end it with Ghost even if she wouldn't have Shadow. There were plenty of other boys around the lodging house, and she would be free to chose. Finally having enough, Shadow whirled sharply and went to the window with the fire escape, climbing up the rusted old stairs.

Blinking rapidly, Spitfire tried to process all of the things that had happened in the short time they had fought. It hurt her that she knew that he wouldn't let her go. Why had she bothered telling him at all? She was a fool to think that he genuinely cared about her. It was clear to her that she was attractive, but she had been used enough that she didn't want to make any more mistakes. Though it hurt to know that she had made a mistake with Shadow, hadn't she? Well he hadn't stopped her yet, it was still yet to see if he would, but something inside her warned her not to get her hopes up.

****

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__

//I believe,

In self assertion,

Destiny,

Or slight diversion…//

****

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For the second time, Spot's eyes opened to see nothing that he expected. This time, instead of the blinding white, he was in what he thought to be a forest. Though he had never been in a forest for himself, this is all that he imagined it to be. The trees and overgrown foliage cluttered around with masses of green and brown. Occasion patches of wildflowers added splashes of color and life to the otherwise strange foreign surroundings.

Standing, he looked around. This place seemed strangely familiar. Though he knew that there was no way that he could recognize this area, it seemed hauntingly familiar. Cautiously, he began to walk, picking his way through bushes and trees that surrounded him. Tree after tree and bush after bush the confused Spot moved through the clutter. Where was he? Hopefully this wasn't another one of those weird dreams.

After what seemed an eternity of walking through the woods, he came to a large open field, another thing he had never seen. The grassy planes waved in the gentle breeze as if to great him and he looked over the sweeping meadow. Much like the woods, it was a large green expanse with splotches of wildflowers springing up and bringing life to their surroundings. Putting one hand on his hip, Spot scratched his head. Where was he?

"Don't worry Patrick," A voice came from behind him and he whirled around. Instantly he was on a beach. Though he had been on a beach before, this one was different. There were no people or building lining the coast, it was simply he and the woman that had haunted him before.

"Dammit," he swore, knowing that since he was seeing her, there was going to be something radical effecting his life. "Whot do yous wont dis time?"

"Silly boy," she smiled softly, almost laughing to herself, the surf pounding loudly behind her. "Must you always be so impatient? Come and walk with me," she held out her hand and Spot eyed it warily. "Come boy," she said in a motherly tone, and hesitantly Spot took her hand.

It was warm and soft just like it had been the first time he had met her. Instantly on contact, Spot was overwhelmed with a sudden surge of peace. It was like what he had felt as he had sat on the roof with Emily. He was content to simply be where he was. So with that said, the two started down the endless beach, walking slowly without speaking for quite some time.

"So why ah yous heah?" Spot asked finally, not desperate for the answer as he had been before, but simply mildly curious.

"I'm here because I need to be," she stated calmly and they walked for awhile longer before they spoke again.

"Why do yous need ta be heah?" Spot inquired, looking at the woman beside him.

"Do you remember your mother, Patrick?" she asked suddenly and Spot frowned. What did his mother have to do with this?

"Yeah," he answered honestly, because he already knew that she knew the answer. Being anything but truthful with this woman was futile.

"Tell me about her," the woman commanded gently and Spot hesitated. He hadn't told anyone about his mother, ever. It was not something that he did, his past was his, and no one else needed to hear about it. There was something different about this woman though, he knew that he could tell her, and in fact he felt the compulsion to tell her. The ethereal ways of her nature made it easier somehow, as though he was under a spell. So after a few moments, he offered what little he remembered.

"She wos beautiful," Spot reminiced slowly. "An' kind, an' she smelled real good," Spot closed his eyes briefly as he tried to remember everything he could.

"Good," the woman said as they continued to walk. "What else?" She prodded and Spot continued without thought.

"She wos always doin' somet'ing wit' her hands," he remembered. "An' she told evahy one dat we'se had a differ'nt last name cause nobody liked da Irish," he opened his eyes and looked at the sand. "Smith," he chuckled. "Dat's whot she said."

"Did you love your mother?" The woman asked and Spot's head swiveled to her instantly.

"O' coyse I loved me muddah," he gripped the key that hung around his neck and showed it to her. "I weah dis key ta remind me o' her," he said frankly, sharing something he had never told living soul.

"Just like you wear that cross to remember Frost," she deducted and Spot's face grew soft. "Yes, you loved her, too," the woman nodded, but kept walking.

"Why ah yous heah?" Spot asked a third time, uncomfortable with the way the conversation was turning.

"I'm here because I need to be," she said again, just the same as she had before and Spot didn't say anything else. They walked along the beach in silence, the surf pounding the shore.

****

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__

//I don't give a damn,

About my reputation,

I don't give a damn,

About my bad reputation…//

****

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Upon coming into the circle and finding that the Brooklyn boy had already passed out again, Lice swore vilely, slamming his fist into the face of the boy who had drawn him back here. He had been in the middle of something with a particularly pretty girl when he had been called and he was now not very happy about his disturbance. Though, if Outsider had been awake, it would have been worth the loss of a kiss and a memory, but he wasn't and he definitely was upset about it. Turning his wrath upon the messenger seemed like a reasonable outlet for his frustration.

The boy fell backwards, gripping his nose as the blood flowed from it freely. A string of vile words flowed from his mouth as he didn't dare look up at his leader, afraid what punishment would come if he saw the anger in his eyes. Defiance was one thing that Lice would never stand for, stupidity was another. In fact there was a whole list of things that set Lice on edge. Overall, failure was probably the worst.

"If he wakes up again, give him some watah ta keep 'im awake," Lice ordered, scanning the room with his two-toned eyes. No one said a word, and he stormed out of the circle. 

After he left however, discontent murmurs could be heard as the boys quietly voiced their dislike of their leader's brutal approach to things. Now that they had Brooklyn, did they really need him around anymore? As always, when things got boring, the boys got restless. The iron grip that Lice had held over them was slipping and he knew it. Desperately, he was using fear and intimidation to try and hold them at bay, and it was working, sort of. The constant approval was something that was needed to keep the control over the boys.

Sadly, since they had taken over Brooklyn without the promised bloodshed and violence that Lice had guaranteed, they were very dissatisfied. If it wasn't for his unrelenting violent attitude or the stupidity of the group, Lice might have to worry more. The group was full of talkers, but not anyone that would act. All it would take though was one boy to take the stand and Lice would be in trouble. The problem would be finding that one.

****

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__

//I wanna be a millionaire,

Someday,

But know what it feels like,

To give it away…//

****

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"Here they are," Lindstrom placed a stack of papers in the middle of the table and a large man grabbed them, thumbing through them hastily.

"You got them all?" The large man growled, and the Lindstrom nodded.

"I don't know why you needed these, we already had-" The small Lindstrom started, but was cut off.

"It wasn't enough," O'Malley interrupted. "We needed more proof," he greedily grabbed the papers from the larger man as he offered them.

"Well, what of you, Mr. Black?" Lindstrom asked. "Have you gotten your part set?"

"Almost," The large man, now labeled Black, replied. "There were a few - complications we had to - work out," the twisted smile on his lips told more than the carefully chosen words he spoke.

"You mean you…" Lindstrom drifted off, feeling a little sick.

"Yes, we killed a few people," O'Malley said bluntly. "But they needed to be quieted," he looked back down at the papers in his lap.

"Are those papers in order?" Black asked, changing the topic, for which Lindstrom was grateful.

"Everything seems ta be…" O'Malley frowned. "Here," his frown deepened as he flipped through a few of the pages. "Where did you get these papers?" he lifted his head and looked at the small mousy man.

"From the safe in his office," he replied. "Aren't they the right ones?" he sat forward and looked very anxious.

"I could be wrong, but it seems that these are different than the others," O'Malley frowned as he looked back down at the columns of figures.

"What do you mean?" Black asked.

"Some of the numbers are different," O'Malley replied.

"How different?" Lindstrom probed.

"Very different," O'Malley said solemnly.

"Good different, or bad different?" Black questioned.

"Good different," O'Malley's frowned turned into a smile as he looked over some more of the figures. "A very good different," he began to chuckle and soon Lindstrom and Black joined him. Whatever the different was, as long as it was good, that was all that mattered. It seemed that everything was going their way.

****

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__

//There can be miracles,

If you believe,

Though hope is frail,

It's hard to kill…//

****

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"Do you believe in miracles Patrick?" The woman asked after they had walked for some time without words.

"Miracles?" Spot asked, frowning slightly.

"Yes, do you believe in them?" She asked and Spot continued to frown.

"I'se not shuah," he answered truthfully.

"Of course you are," the woman assured, and Spot looked at her skeptically.

"I guess dat dey could happen ta oder people," Spot shrugged.

"But not to you?" She inquired as they continued to walk down the seemingly endless beach.

"Nah," Spot shook his head. "Dey don' happen ta people like me."

"Why not?" She prodded and Spot looked at her curiously.

"Why ah yous askin' me all dis?" He frowned.

"Because I need to," she said simply and Spot felt a surge of frustration.

"Don't yous evah ansah questions?" he asked, pulling his hand away from hers. Immediately he felt the anger, frustration, and pain he had felt before as he lost contact with her. The peace that had been there was gone and the power of the emotions that replaced it were staggering. Shutting his eyes, he swayed slightly, a little off balance, before opening his eyes again to find that he wasn't on the beach anymore. No he was somewhere very familiar.

It was a small tenement room. A tiny table with five chairs around it sat off to the side. A bed was over by the window and the kitchen was clean as it always had been. The wooden floorboards creaked in the same places as they always had and the same prized light fixture hung from the ceiling. Spot could almost hear the familiar voices from his past echo through the room with a realism that struck him with a fear that chilled his innermost marrow.

"Why did yous bring me heah?" he swallowed heavily, knowing the even though he couldn't see the woman, she was there.

"I didn't," came the reply. "You brought us here," she said calmly and Spot turned, looking to see where she was, but didn't see her.

"Wheah ah yous?" he asked, his heart beating heavily in his chest.

"Right here," came the reply and he swung around to the direction of the voice, but there was no one there. "Look down," she instructed and he did, but still saw nothing.

"Stop playin' games wit' me," he growled out the warning and she laughed slightly.

"I play no games, it is you that insist on jesting," she laughed softly and Spot felt a chill run down the back of his neck. Whirling around, he came face to face with the woman, he stumbled back in shock. "Dammit, don' do dat!" he swore and she smiled slightly.

"Do you remember this place?" She asked and Spot looked at her incredulously.

"Remembah it?" he snorted. "O' coyse I do," he looked around, inhaling deeply. Imagining that he could still smell the bread his mother was baking. "But why ah we'se heah?" he asked, looking her in the eye, something that he rarely did.

"Many miracles happened in this place," she told him. "You were born here," she informed and he nodded.

"I mighta been boyn heah, but dat ain't no miracle," he snorted.

"What about the night your mother died?" she asked and Spot's eyes darkened.

"Dat woyn't no miracle," he growled and she nodded.

"It was a miracle that you got away," she pointed out and Spot shook his head.

"I shoulda died wit' da rest o' dem," he said bitterly and the woman's expression was blank.

"If you were supposed to die, you would have," she told him and he surveyed her as he would a lunatic.

"So yous sayin' dat me muddah, bruddah, and sistah weah supposed ta die?" he spat. "Yous sayin' dat I wos supposed ta kill me own faddah?" he felt his shoulders tense as he said those words.

"You must understand," the woman spoke calmly. "That no matter how many bad things happened here, there was at least one miracle that occurred here on a regular basis," she said and Spot looked at her curiously. "Love," she answered his unspoken question. "Love is the greatest miracle of them all," she smiled.

"Why ah yous tellin' me all dis now?" Spot's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Because you needed to know that before you wake," she informed and Spot looked around the apartment again. "There are such things are miracles, even if they are different than we expect them to be," She reached out and took his hand once more and he looked at her, feeling the peace flooding him one more.

"I'se not goin' ta see yous again, am I?" Spot was struck with this understanding.

"It is not for me to say, Patrick," she smiled briefly. "But know this, there is someone out there that loves you, and that was made to love you," she said with great solemnity. "Though they might not be who you think, they are out there," she let go of his hand and he reached out for it again, but his hand went right through her. Gentle pricks of pain could be felt behind his eyes.

"Wait," Spot pleaded, as his head began to throb. "I'se got some questions," he watched with horror as she started to fade.

"It is time to wake up Patrick," she informed. "You will find the answers then," she promised.

"Will I'se be able ta see?" Spot asked frantically and the room around him began to melt into the darkness along with the woman. Suddenly he was becoming very dizzy and his leg couldn't support him.

"Wake up Patrick," she said. 

Spot was immediately struck with an immense pain over his whole body. It felt like he was being ripped in two and a flash of light brighter than the sun erupted in his mind. The questions that he had would have to wait as consciousness began to take control of his mind. The pricks of pain that he had felt were intensified a thousand-fold, and he gritted his teeth only to find that even that hurt.

Through all of this pain, Spot couldn't help but wish for a miracle.

****

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A/N: I broke my thumb about halfway through typing this chapter, hence the large delay in posting. I've been trying to learn how to type with basically one hand. Dang it. It is harder than you would think. This is going to be awkward because I am in **Sleeping Beauty** and I am going to be up there in a renaissance dress and have a big old cast. This is going to suck dang it. The stupid guy only got a two-minute penalty for slashing my thumb and breaking it through an NHL quality glove! Two minutes! Okay, not even a major penalty! [ Sigh ] Sorry for the little rant, I am just mad. 

****

Bottles: I understand about the thinking you reviewed and then realizing that you hadn't. It's okay, I'm not offended or anything. You read this story religiously you say? Well, well, well, what an interesting fact. Too bad I don't write it religiously. [ hides ] Aw you're sweet to say that my fictions are among the "best," but I think that is a slight exaggeration. I'm curious to see where the muses take this fiction, because I honestly don't know where it is going. Subplots are really fun, but sometimes confusing for me! I think there is some rule that somewhere in every story there needs to be a love-triangle. It just makes things so much more interesting. Thanks for the review, take care. ^_^

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Kaylee: You are forgiven for not reviewing, just don't forget it next time, and don't forget to update your story! I'm glad that you enjoyed this chapter and the last one even if you didn't review it. Take care. 

****

Red Cinnamon: Yep, it is a cliffhanger. Anyway, I hope Spot is okay too. You only got to see a little bit of what happens, and you got a little more now, but you will have to wait to find out about the rest.

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Priscilla: Yep, Spot wasn't to live, yahoo! I'm glad that you liked the chapter, the plot is getting interesting. All right, I think I am going to be keeping the longer chapter and less updates. I'll try to keep this up, I want to finish it, but who knows. It all matters what the muses wanted.

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Ireland O'Reily: Ha, ha, yep, Spot made it through, but he is still far from recovery. I love "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." It is an awesome movie that has gotten far less attention than it should have. West Side Story is great too. I sang part of "Tonight" for a drama audition, it rocked. Woo hoo, I've never seen "Cats" but I love that song. Memory that is. I think I am going with the longer chapters and the less frequent updates because people seem to like the longer chapters and it would be hard to fit in all of the subplots and everything in shorter ones. Hey, D+… that is better than I would ever get in French. The language of the devil I say. Spanish is better. ^_^ Well, just try your hardest and hit those books a little harder. Maybe something will click for you and it will all be easier from then on. Sometimes you just need that little realization or that first little understanding and then it all gets better. I hope all goes well for you. Take care. ^_^

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Rae Kelly: Well, I am going to stick with the longer chapters and see how it goes from there. ^_^ I'm glad that you are enjoying this story and hope that you continue to do so. Take care and may the muses be kind to you. ^_^

There were a few more of you and I am sorry that I couldn't get to you right now, thank you for your review, but I just couldn't type anymore. I love you all, please review and make my poor broken thumb feel better. ^_^


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